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Poems  of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti.     Edited  w 
an  Introduction  and  Critical  Notes  by  ELIS 
BETH  LUTHER  GARY.     With  illustrations  frc 
his  own  designs.    With  32  illustrations 
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G.   P.   PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


POEMS  BY 


DANTE  GABRIEL 
ROSSETTI 


WITH 


FROM 
HIS  OWN  DESK 


The  Girlhood  of  Mary 

Rossetti' sfg&i  Tpifx&ant  painting,  18. 
BY 

ELISABETH 


IN  TWO  VCLVMES 

J 

VOLVME  I 


's 


_^THE  KNICKCRBOCKLR 


LONWJN 


DAN'        GABRIEL 


ROSSETTI 


WITH 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FROM 
HIS  OWN  DESIGNS 


EDITED 
BY 


ELISABETH 
LVTMER^ 

CAKJ 


IN  TWO  VOLVMES 
* 

VOLVME  I 


:s  SONS 


THE 


LONDON 


COPYRIGHT,  1903 

BY 
G.  P   PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Published,  October,  190? 


Imfcfcerbocker  press,  "Hew 


EDITOR'S  PREFACE 

THAT  Rossetti's  poems  should  be  accompanied  by 
illustrations  from  his  own  drawings  is  so  obviously 
appropriate  as  to  call  for  little  explanation.  With  Ros- 
setti  painting  and  poetry  marched  together  through  long 
periods,  and  while  he  was,  perhaps,  more  painter  than 
poet,  he  was  a  poet  before  he  was  a  painter.  At  the 
age  of  five  he  had  formed  the  habit,  never  entirely  relin- 
quished, of  copying  his  original  verse  into  a  note-book. 
His  first  long  poem,  a  ballad  called  Sir  Hugh  the  Heron, 
was  written  in  1841  when  he  was  thirteen.  Three  years 
later  he  made  a  very  creditable  translation  of  Burger's 
Lenore,  and  followed  this  with  translations  of  two  other 
German  poems.  By  the  time  he  was  seventeen  he  had 
begun  to  translate  the  early  Italian  poets  with  the  com- 
bined truth  and  felicity  possible  only  to  a  mind  both 
scholarly  and  poetic.  Before  he  was  nineteen  he  had 
written  The  Blessed  Damo^el,  embodying  the  profound 
mysticism  of  his  temperament  in  verse  as  limpid  and 
passionate  as  any  achieved  by  him  in  later  life.  All  this 
before  he  had  touched  brush  to  palette  for  serious  accom- 
plishment, although  he  began  to  study  drawing  when  he 
was  about  fifteen. 

That  he  finally  chose  painting  as  a  practical  vocation 
was  due  to  his  faith  in  its  usefulness  as  a  means  of  liveli- 
hood rather  than  to  his  belief  in  its  superiority  as  a 
method  of  self-expression.  While  he  was  struggling 
with  the  technical  problems  of  the  two  arts,  and  finding 

VOL.  i.  [iii] 


2043713 


jEMtor'6  preface 

poetry  in  those  early  years  by  far  the  easier  of  the  two, 
he  ardently  considered  the  possibility  of  giving  up  his 
time  to  it,  and  wrote  to  Leigh  Hunt  for  advice.  The 
older  and  more  sadly  experienced  poet  replied  that 
poetry  "is  not  a  thing  for  a  man  to  live  upon  while 
he  is  in  the  flesh,  however  immortal  it  may  render  him 
in  spirit."  The  Rossetti  family  were  not  in  a  position  to 
ignore  material  returns,  and  poetry  became  a  subordinate 
feature  in  Dante  Gabriel's  career. 

He  continued,  however,  to  write  more  or  less  from 
time  to  time,  and  during  the  last  two  or  three  years 
of  his  life  his  interest  in  his  poems  was  intense. 

Both  his  poetry  and  his  painting  reveal  the  same  side 
of  his  nature,  but  his  brooding  mind,  his  symbolic  tend- 
ency, his  egoistic  vision,  his  exotic  taste,  are  shown  in 
his  pictures  more  definitely  and  impressively  than  in  his 
poems,  where  involved  constructions  and  occasionally 
tortured  metaphors  also  obscure  to  a  degree  the  beauty 
of  his  poetic  imagination.  Highly  as  he  valued  the  in- 
visible and  spiritual,  and  fervently  as  he  strove  to  repre- 
sent them  through  such  symbols  as  earth  and  the  earthly 
provide,  it  was  his  ironical  fate  to  dwell  so  insistently 
upon  the  physical  world  as  to  give  through  the  greater 
part  of  his  poems  the  impression  of  almost  complete 
preoccupation  with  it.  In  his  paintings  we  find  large 
arms  and  full  lips  and  unnatural  necks,  but  we  find 
also  haunting,  spiritual  eyes  whose  outlook  is  beyond 
the  bounds  of  temporal  life,  lending  an  element  of  grave 
and  mystical  charm  to  the  conception.  And  we  find 
beside,  colour  so  deep,  so  splendid,  and  so  sombre  as  to 
enforce  the  impression  of  beauty  against  all  interruptions 
by  accidental  detail.  In  his  poetry  we  are  more  conscious 
of  the  limitations  and  defects  of  his  taste.  The  sounds 
and  rhythms,  treated  in  a  manner  quite  un-English  and 

[iv] 


jeMtor'0  preface 

remarkable  for  sonorous  weight  and  superbly  balanced 
measure,  are  in  many  instances  altogether  insufficient  to 
cover  the  essential  poverty  of  the  thought,  and  we  con- 
tinually miss  the  note  of  spontaneity,  of  inspiration,  and 
inevitableness.  Thus,  frequently  in  the  case  of  a  paint- 
ing and  a  poem  on  the  same  subject,  Rossetti's  meaning 
is  more  adequately  and  convincingly  expressed  in  the 
former  than  in  the  latter.  Occasionally,  however,  pre- 
cisely the  opposite  is  true.  If  we  consider,  for  example, 
such  a  picture  as  his  Fiammetia,  and  the  sonnet  written  to 
accompany  it,  we  see  readily  enough  how  the  revelation 
of  his  meaning  is  aided  by  the  union  of  the  two  arts.  In 
the  picture  he  has  placed  the  figure  of  a  beautiful  girl 
among  branches  of  apple-blossoms.  She  holds  a  spray 
high  above  her  and  a  bird  is  seen  perching  on  it.  A 
nimbus  of  light  surrounds  her  head  and  her  eyes  look 
out  from  the  canvas  with  a  direct  and  pensive  gaze. 
There  is  plentiful  suggestion  in  the  strong  figure  with  its 
surrounding  flood  of  Spring  bloom,  but  it  would  not  in 
itself  interpret  the  particular  thought  in  Rossetti's  mind 
which  finds  expression  in  the  sonnet,  the  exquisite  de- 
finition adding  to  the  Fiammetta  a  spiritual  grace  for  the 
least  sympathetic  beholder. 

To  feel  to  the  full  the  passionate  romanticism  of  Ros- 
setti's Italian  and  mediaeval  temper,  and  to  appreciate  the 
noble  flashes  of  moral  insight  by  which  his  mental  atti- 
tude is  illumined,  it  is  necessary  to  study  his  poems  and 
pictures  side  by  side,  an  opportunity  for  which  this  little 
collection  offers  a  very  pitiful  substitute.  And  more  is 
needed  than  even  close  familiarity  with  Rossetti's  work 
to  discover  the  side  of  his  remarkable  personality  that  so 
much  endeared  him  to  his  friends.  Nothing  that  he  has 
painted  or  written  for  the  general  public  suggests  that 
frank,  infectious  laughter,  that  incisive  speech  akin  to 


d  preface 

wit,  that  ready  generosity  of  mood  by  which  he  was 
known  within  his  circle.  Like  the  great  Florentine  whose 
name  he  bears,  the  gaiety  of  his  manner  and  the  boyish- 
ness of  his  speech  were  curiously  at  variance  with  the 
deep  and  sober  sentiment  of  his  accomplishment.  In 
quoting  from  his  letters  and  comments  on  his  own  work 
I  have  to  a  slight  degree  suggested  this  free  and  hearty 
openness  which  was  characteristic  of  him  from  his  youth 
to  the  years  of  his  decline.  In  this  way  I  have  tried  to 
furnish  the  reader  with  a  more  satisfactory  mental  picture 
of  him  than  could  otherwise  be  obtained  within  such 
narrow  limits. 

I  have  not  attempted  exhaustive  annotation.  The 
variations  in  different  editions  of  the  poems  I  have  noted 
when  they  seemed  to  me  worthy  of  consideration,  and 
many  of  my  biographical  notes  have  been  made  purely 
with  the  idea  of  connecting  the  work  with  the  man  in  a 
way  to  add  to  the  reader's  interest  in  both. 

I  have  arranged  the  poems  as  nearly  as  possible  in 
chronological  order,  believing  that  to  be  the  only  way 
to  gain  a  connected  idea  of  the  growth  of  a  writer's  mind 
and  the  continuity  of  his  ideal.  The  arrangement  of  the 
House  of  Life  \  have  not  disturbed,  but  I  have  indicated 
the  dates  of  the  different  sonnets  whenever  I  could  de- 
termine them.  No  one  knows  better  than  myself  how 
little  this  edition  of  Rossetti's  poems  can  lay  claim  to  the 
honourable  epithet  "scholarly,"  but  I  have  tried  to  make 
it  the  kind  of  edition  that  seems  to  be  most  valuable  for 
a  student's  purposes.  I  have  tried,  that  is,  to  arouse  curi- 
osity concerning  the  complex  and  interesting  tempera- 
ment of  which  the  poems  and  pictures  together  are  but 
an  imperfect  manifestation. 

E.  L.  C. 


[vi] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE 3 

THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL 35 

MY  SISTER'S  SLEEP 46 

THE  PORTRAIT 53 

JENNY 58 

THE  LADY'S  LAMENT 72 

AT  THE  SUNRISE  IN  1848 74 

AUTUMN  SONG •        •  75 

MARY'S  GIRLHOOD 76 

THE  CARD-DEALER 80 

ON  REFUSAL  OF  AID  BETWEEN  NATIONS     ...  82 

ON  THE  "  VITA  NUOVA  "  OF  DANTE  .        ...  84 

A  TRIP  TO  PARIS  AND  BELGIUM         ....  86 

THE  STAIRCASE  OF  NOTRE  DAME,  PARIS    ...  95 

PLACE  DE  LA  BASTILLE,  PARIS 96 

NEAR  BRUSSELS — A  HALF-WAY  PAUSE      ...  97 

ANTWERP  AND  BRUGES 98 

ON  LEAVING  BRUGES 99 

FOR  A  VIRGIN  AND  CHILD 100 

FOR  A  MARRIAGE  OF  ST.  CATHERINE          .         .        .  101 
FOR  AN  ALLEGORICAL  DANCE  OF  WOMEN   .        .        .103 

FOR  A  VENETIAN  PASTORAL 105 

FOR  RUGGIERO  AND  ANGELICA IO8 

FOR  AN  ANNUNCIATION 1 10 

FOR  OUR  LADY  OF  THE  ROCKS in 

AVE 112 

WORLD'S  WORTH 117 

SONG  AND  Music 121 

[vii] 


Contents 


PAGE 


THE  SEA-LIMITS      ...                 ...  122 

Vox  ECCLESI^,  Vox  CHRISTI 124 

DANTE  AT  VERONA 125 

THE  MIRROR 145 

A  LAST  CONFESSION 146 

A  YOUNG  FIR- WOOD 165 

DURING  Music 166 

THE  BURDEN  OF  NINEVEH 167 

THE  CHURCH-PORCH 182 

WELLINGTON'S  FUNERAL 183 

STRATTON  WATER 186 

THE  STAFF  AND  SCRIP 194 

SISTER  HELEN 203 

ENGLISH  MAY  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .216 

BEAUTY  AND  THE  BIRD 217 

THE  PASSOVER  IN  THE  HOLY  FAMILY  .        .        .        .218 
ON  THE  SITE  OF  A  MULBERRY-TREE  .        .        .        .219 

A  NEW-YEAR'S  BURDEN 220 

PENUMBRA 221 

A  MATCH  WITH  THE  MOON 223 

LOVE'S  NOCTURN 224 

ON  CERTAIN  ELIZABETHAN  REVIVALS          .        .        .  232 

PLIGHTED  PROMISE 233 

FIRST  LOVE  REMEMBERED         .                 ...  234 

SUDDEN  LIGHT         ...                 ...  235 

EVEN  So 236 

THE  WOODSPURGE 238 

THE  HONEYSUCKLE  . 239 

DANTIS  TENEBR/E 240 

WORDS  ON  THE  WINDOW-PANE        .        .        .        .241 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  BOWER 242 

DAWN  ON  THE  NIGHT-JOURNEY         ....  244 

A  LITTLE  WHILE 245 

AN  OLD  SONG  ENDED 246 

[viiij 


Contents 


PAGE 


ASPECT  A  MEDUSA    ....  .        .  247 

MICHAEL  SCOTT'S  WOOING 249 

VENUS  VERTICORDIA 250 

EDEN  BOWER 252 

MARY  MAGDALENE  AT  THE  DOOR  OF    SIMON    THE 

PHARISEE      .......  260 

TROY  TOWN 263 

NOTES 269 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Page 

The  Girlhood  of  Mary  Virgin.   Frontispiece 

Rossetti'  s  first  important  painting,  1849. 

Study  for  the  lovers  in  the  background  of 
"  The  Blessed  Damo^el  "  .        .        .      16 

Version  of  1876. 
(See  poem,  page  41.) 

The  Blessed  Damo^el,  1879  40 

Study  for  "  The  Blessed  Damo^el  ''          -54 

Red  chalk,  1875. 
(See  poem,  page  41  .) 

Study  for  the  lovers  in  the  background  of 
"  The  Blessed  Damo^el  "  .        .        -74 

Version  0/1876. 
(See  poem,  page  41.) 

The  Boat  of  Love     .....    100 

Unfinished  picture, 


The  Salutation  of  Beatrice  :  The  Meeting 
in  Florence,  1859      .        .        .        .     112 

(See  poem,  page  127.) 

The  Salutation  of  Beatrice:  The  Meeting 
in  Paradise,  1859     ....    128 

(See  poem,  page  i2j.) 
VOL.  i.  [xi] 


Hllu0tration0. 

Page 

The  First  Anniversary  of  the  Death  of 
Beatrice :  Dante  drawing  the  angel  .  130 

Pen  and  ink,  1849. 

Figure  of  Dante  from  (( Dante's  Dream/' 

1871 136 

Dante's  Dream 144 

From  tile  oil  colour  of  1871, 

Mary  Magdalene  at  the  Door  of  Simon 

the  Pharisee 166 

Pen  and  ink,  1858. 
(See  poem,  page  262.} 

Sketch  for  "  Sister  Helen"      .        .        .    206 

Pen  and  ink. 

Troy  Town 220 

Sketch  for  picture  not  executed,  1870. 
(See  poem,  page  26}.} 

Portrait  of  Gabriel  Rossetti,  1840  .        .    240 

Head  of  Christ  from  the  large  oil  painting 
of  Mary  Magdalene  at  the  Door  of 
Simon  the  Pharisee,  1859-1865  .  260 


[xii] 


POEMS  BY 

DANTE   GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 


THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE. 

THE  poem  now  called  The  Bride's  Prelude  was  begun 
about  1847,  and  was  tnen  called  Bride-Chamber 
Talk.  Rossetti's  own  verdict  on  it  was:  "  I  think  the 
poem  is  saved  by  its  picturesqueness,  but  that  otherwise 
the  story  up  to  the  point  reached  is  too  purely  repellent." 
He  had  in  mind  a  sequel  in  which  a  nobler  love  should 
follow  "the  mere  passionate  frailty"  of  the  first,  this 
later  love  being  rendered  calamitous  by  the  return  of  the 
false  first  lover,  now  desirous  to  marry  the  lady,  whose 
brothers  urge  on  the  suit.  The  second  lover  is  treacher- 
ously slain  by  the  first  in  a  tournament;  and  the  mar- 
riage is  agreed  upon.  The  poem  was  to  close  with  the 
bridal  procession  and  an  intimation  of  the  brothers'  in- 
tention to  kill  the  bridegroom  after  the  ceremony,  they 
having  no  love  for  him,  but  viewing  his  alliance  with 
their  sister  as  a  matter  of  expediency.  "The  poem 
would  gain  so  greatly  by  this  sequel,"  Rossetti  wrote  to 
Hall  Caine,  "that  I  suppose  I  must  set  to  and  finish  it 
one  day,  old  as  it  is."  But  this  he  never  did.  In  the 
same  letter  he  called  the  card-playing  passage  "  the  best 
thing  —  as  a  unit  —  in  the  poem,"  and  explained  the 
slow  movement  which  was  against  the  rule  he  usually 
followed  by  the  fact  that  in  place  of  a  "life  condensed 
in  an  episode,"  he  had  here  "a  story  which  had  neces- 
sarily to  be  told  step  by  step,  and  a  situation  which  had 
unavoidably  to  be  anatomised." 


[3] 


THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE. 

(Begun  in  1847.     Unfinished.) 

"  SISTER,"  said  busy  Amelotte 

To  listless  Aloyse; 

"Along  your  wedding-road  the  wheat 
Bends  as  to  hear  your  horse's  feet, 
And  the  noonday  stands  still  for  heat." 

Amelotte  laughed  into  the  air 

With  eyes  that  sought  the  sun : 
But  where  the  walls  in  long  brocade 
Were  screened,  as  one  who  is  afraid 
Sat  Aloyse  within  the  shade. 

And  even  in  shade  was  gleam  enough 

To  shut  out  full  repose 
From  the  bride's  'tiring-chamber,  which 
Was  like  the  inner  altar-niche 
Whose  dimness  worship  has  made  rich. 

Within  the  window's  heaped  recess 

The  light  was  counterchanged 
In  blent  reflexes  manifold 
From  perfume-caskets  of  wrought  gold 
And  gems  the  bride's  hair  could  not  hold 

All  thrust  together:  and  with  these 
A  slim-curved  lute,  which  now, 
[4] 


Brifce'e  prelufce. 


At  Amelotte's  sudden  passing  there, 
Was  swept  in  somewise  unaware, 
And  shook  to  music  the  close  air. 

Against  the  haloed  lattice  -panes 

The  bridesmaid  sunned  her  breast; 
Then  to  the  glass  turned  tall  and  free, 
And  braced  and  shifted  daintily 
Her  loin-belt  through  her  cote-hardie. 

The  belt  was  silver,  and  the  clasp 

Of  lozenged  arm-bearings; 
A  world  of  mirrored  tints  minute 
The  rippling  sunshine  wrought  into  't, 
That  flushed  her  hand  and  warmed  her  foot. 

At  least  an  hour  had  Aloyse,  — 

Her  jewels  in  her  hair,  — 
Her  white  gown,  as  became  a  bride, 
Quartered  in  silver  at  each  side,  — 
Sat  thus  aloof,  as  if  to  hide. 

Over  her  bosom,  that  lay  still, 

The  vest  was  rich  in  grain, 
With  close  pearls  wholly  overset: 
Around  her  throat  the  fastenings  met 
Of  chevesayle  and  mantelet. 

Her  arms  were  laid  along  her  lap 

With  the  hands  open  :  life 
Itself  did  seem  at  fault  in  her: 
Beneath  the  drooping  brows,  the  stir 
Of  thought  made  noonday  heavier. 
[5] 


prelube. 


Long  sat  she  silent;  and  then  raised 

Her  head,  with  such  a  gasp 
As  while  she  summoned  breath  to  speak 
Fanned  high  that  furnace  in  the  cheek 
But  sucked  the  heart-pulse  cold  and  weak. 

(Oh  gather  round  her  now,  all  ye 

Past  seasons  of  her  fear,  — 
Sick  springs,  and  summers  deadly  cold! 
To  flight  your  hovering  wings  unfold, 
For  now  your  secret  shall  be  told. 

Ye  many  sunlights,  barbed  with  darts 

Of  dread  detecting  flame,— 
Gaunt  moonlights  that  like  sentinels 
Went  past  with  iron  clank  of  bells,  — 
Draw  round  and  render  up  your  spells!) 

"Sister,"  said  Aloyse,  "I  had 

A  thing  to  tell  thee  of 
Long  since,  and  could  not.     But  do  thou 
Kneel  first  in  prayer  awhile,  and  bow 
Thine  heart,  and  I  will  tell  thee  now." 

Amelotte  wondered  with  her  eyes; 

But  her  heart  said  in  her: 
"  Dear  Aloyse  would  have  me  pray 
Because  the  awe  she  feels  to-day 
Must  need  more  prayers  than  she  can  say." 

So  Amelotte  put  by  the  folds 
That  covered  up  her  feet, 
And  knelt,  —  beyond  the  arras'd  gloom 
And  the  hot  window's  dull  perfume,  — 
Where  day  was  stillest  in  the  room. 
[6] 


Bribc'0 


"Queen  Mary,  hear,"  she  said,  "  and  say 

To  Jesus  the  Lord  Christ, 
This  bride's  new  joy,  which  He  confers, 
New  joy  to  many  ministers, 
And  many  griefs  are  bound  in  hers." 

The  bride  turned  in  her  chair,  and  hid 

Her  face  against  the  back, 
And  took  her  pearl-girt  elbows  in 
Her  hands,  and  could  not  yet  begin, 
But  shuddering,  uttered,  "Urscelyn!" 

Most  weak  she  was  ;  for  as  she  pressed 

Her  hand  against  her  throat, 
Along  the  arras  she  let  trail 
Her  face,  as  if  all  heart  did  fail, 
And  sat  with  shut  eyes,  dumb  and  pale. 

Amelotte  still  was  on  her  knees 
As  she  had  kneeled  to  pray. 
Deeming  her  sister  swooned,  she  thought, 
At  first,  some  succour  to  have  brought; 
But  Aloyse  rocked,  as  one  distraught. 

She  would  have  pushed  the  lattice  wide 

To  gain  what  breeze  might  be; 
But  marking  that  no  leaf  once  beat 
The  outside  casement,  it  seemed  meet 
Not  to  bring  in  more  scent  and  heat. 

So  she  said  only  :  "Aloyse, 

Sister,  when  happened  it 
At  any  time  that  the  bride  came 
To  ill,  or  spoke  in  fear  of  shame 
When  speaking  first  the  bridegroom's  name  ?" 


Bribe's  preiube. 


A  bird  had  out  its  song  and  ceased 

Ere  the  bride  spoke.     At  length 
She  said:  "  The  name  is  as  the  thing:  — 
Sin  hath  no  second  christening, 
And  shame  is  all  that  shame  can  bring. 

"  In  divers  places  many  an  while 
I  would  have  told  thee  this; 
But  faintness  took  me,  or  a  fit 
Like  fever.     God  would  not  permit 
That  I  should  change  thine  eyes  with  it. 

"  Yet  once  I  spoke,  hadst  thou  but  heard: 

That  time  we  wandered  out 
All  the  sun's  hours,  but  missed  our  way 
When  evening  darkened,  and  so  lay 
The  whole  night  covered  up  in  hay. 

"  At  last  my  face  was  hidden:  so, 

Having  God's  hint,  1  paused 
Not  long;  but  drew  myself  more  near 
Where  thou  wast  laid,  and  shook  off  fear, 
And  whispered  quick  into  thine  ear 

"  Something  of  the  whole  tale.     At  first 

I  lay  and  bit  my  hair 
For  the  sore  silence  thou  didst  keep: 
Till,  as  thy  breath  came  long  and  deep, 
I  knew  that  thou  hadst  been  asleep. 

"  The  moon  was  covered,  but  the  stars 

Lasted  till  morning  broke. 
Awake,  thou  told'st  me  that  thy  dream 
Had  been  of  me,  —  that  all  did  seem 
At  jar,  —  but  that  it  was  a  dream. 
[8] 


She  Bri^e'0  prelufce. 

"  I  knew  God's  hand  and  might  not  speak. 

After  that  night  I  kept 
Silence  and  let  the  record  swell: 
Till  now  there  is  much  more  to  tell 
Which  must  be  told  out  ill  or  well." 

She  paused  then,  weary,  with  dry  lips 

Apart.     From  the  outside 
By  fits  there  boomed  a  dull  report 
From  where  i'  the  hanging  tennis-court 
The  bridegroom's  retinue  made  sport. 

The  room  lay  still  in  dusty  glare, 
Having  no  sound  through  it 
Except  the  chirp  of  a  caged  bird 
That  came  and  ceased:  and  if  she  stirred, 
Amelotte's  raiment  could  be  heard. 

Quoth  Amelotte:  "  The  night  this  chanced 

Was  a  late  summer  night 
Last  year!    What  secret,  for  Christ's  love, 
Keep'st  thou  since  then  ?  Mary  above! 
What  thing  is  this  thou  speakest  of? 

"  Mary  and  Christ!     Lest  when  't  is  told 

I  should  be  prone  to  wrath, — 
This  prayer  beforehand!  How  she  errs 
Soe'er,  take  count  of  grief  like  hers, 
Whereof  the  days  are  turned  to  years!  " 

She  bowed  her  neck,  and  having  said, 

Kept  on  her  knees  to  hear; 
And  then,  because  strained  thought  demands 
Quiet  before  it  understands, 
Darkened  her  eyesight  with  her  hands. 
[9] 


Bribe's  prelude* 


So  when  at  last  her  sister  spoke, 

She  did  not  see  the  pain 
O'  the  mouth  nor  the  ashamed  eyes, 
But  marked  the  breath  that  came  in  sighs 
And  the  half-pausing  for  replies. 

This  was  the  bride's  sad  prelude-strain  :  — 

"!'  the  convent  where  a  girl 
I  dwelt  till  near  my  womanhood, 
I  had  but  preachings  of  the  rood 
And  Aves  told  in  solitude 

"To  spend  my  heart  on:  and  my  hand 

Had  but  the  weary  skill 
To  eke  out  upon  silken  cloth 
Christ's  visage,  or  the  long  bright  growth 
Of  Mary's  hair,  or  Satan  wroth. 

"So  when  at  last  I  went,  and  thou, 

A  child  not  known  before, 
Didst  come  to  take  the  place  I  left,  — 
My  limbs,  after  such  lifelong  theft 
Of  life,  could  be  but  little  deft 

"  In  all  that  ministers  delight 

To  noble  women  :  I 

Had  learned  no  word  of  youth's  discourse, 
Nor  gazed  on  games  of  warriors, 
Nor  trained  a  hound,  nor  ruled  a  horse. 

"  Besides,  the  daily  life  i'  the  sun 
Made  me  at  first  hold  back. 
To  thee  this  came  at  once;  to  me 
It  crept  with  pauses  timidly; 
I  am  not  blithe  and  strong  like  thee. 


Bribe's  prelude. 


"Yet  my  feet  like  the  dances  well, 
The  songs  went  to  my  voice, 
The  music  made  me  shake  and  weep; 
And  often,  all  night  long,  my  sleep 
Gave  dreams  I  had  been  fain  to  keep. 

"  But  though  I  loved  not  holy  things, 

To  hear  them  scorned  brought  pain,  — 
They  were  my  childhood;  and  these  dames 
Were  merely  perjured  in  saints'  names 
And  fixed  upon  saints'  days  for  games. 

"And  sometimes  when  my  father  rode 

To  hunt  with  his  loud  friends, 
1  dared  not  bring  him  to  be  quaff  d, 
As  my  wont  was,  his  stirrup-draught, 
Because  they  jested  so  and  laugh'd. 

"  At  last  one  day  my  brothers  said, 

'The  girl  must  not  grow  thus,  — 
Bring  her  a  jennet,  —  she  shall  ride.' 
They  helped  my  mounting,  and  I  tried 
To  laugh  with  them  and  keep  their  side. 

"  But  brakes  were  rough  and  bents  were  steep 

Upon  our  path  that  day: 
My  palfrey  threw  me;  and  I  went 
Upon  men's  shoulders  home,  sore  spent, 
While  the  chase  followed  up  the  scent. 

"Our  shrift-father  (and  he  alone 

Of  all  the  household  there 
Had  skill  in  leechcraft,)  was  away 
When  I  reached  home.     I  tossed,  and  lay 
Sullen  with  anguish  the  whole  day. 


Bribe's 


"  For  the  day  passed  ere  some  one  brought 

To  mind  that  in  the  hunt 
Rode  a  young  lord  she  named,  long  bred 
Among  the  priests,  whose  art  (she  said) 
Might  chance  to  stand  me  in  much  stead. 

"I  bade  them  seek  and  summon  him: 

But  long  ere  this,  the  chase 
Had  scattered,  and  he  was  not  found. 
I  lay  in  the  same  weary  stound, 
Therefore,  until  the  night  came  round. 

"  It  was  dead  night  and  near  on  twelve 

When  the  horse-tramp  at  length 
Beat  up  the  echoes  of  the  court: 
By  then,  my  feverish  breath  was  short 
With  pain  the  sense  could  scarce  support. 

"  My  fond  nurse  sitting  near  my  feet 

Rose  softly,  —  her  lamp's  flame 
Held  in  her  hand,  lest  it  should  make 
My  heated  lids,  in  passing,  ache; 
And  she  passed  softly,  for  my  sake. 

"  Returning  soon,  she  brought  the  youth 

They  spoke  of.     Meek  he  seemed, 
But  good  knights  held  him  of  stout  heart. 
He  was  akin  to  us  in  part, 
And  bore  our  shield,  but  barred  athwart. 

"  I  now  remembered  to  have  seen 

His  face,  and  heard  him  praised 
For  letter-lore  and  medicine, 
Seeing  his  youth  was  nurtured  in 
Priests'  knowledge,  as  mine  own  had  been." 

[12] 


3BrU>e'0  prelude. 


The  bride's  voice  did  not  weaken  here, 

Yet  by  her  sudden  pause 
She  seemed  to  look  for  questioning; 
Or  else  (small  need  though)  't  was  to  bring 
Well  to  her  mind  the  bygone  thing. 

Her  thought,  long  stagnant,  stirred  by  speech, 

Gave  her  a  sick  recoil; 
As,  dip  thy  fingers  through  the  green 
That  masks  a  pool,  —  where  they  have  been 
The  naked  depth  is  black  between. 

Amelotte  kept  her  knees;  her  face 

Was  shut  within  her  hands, 
As  it  had  been  throughout  the  tale; 
Her  forehead's  whiteness  might  avail 
Nothing  to  say  if  she  were  pale. 

Although  the  lattice  had  dropped  loose, 

There  was  no  wind;  the  heat 
Being  so  at  rest  that  Amelotte 
Heard  far  beneath  the  plunge  and  float 
Of  a  hound  swimming  in  the  moat. 

Some  minutes  since,  two  rooks  had  toiled 

Home  to  the  nests  that  crowned 
Ancestral  ash-trees.     Through  the  glare 
Beating  again,  they  seemed  to  tear 
With  that  thick  caw  the  woof  o'  the  air. 

But  else,  't  was  at  the  dead  of  noon 

Absolute  silence;  all, 

From  the  raised  bridge  and  guarded  sconce 
To  green-clad  places  of  pleasaunce 
Where  the  long  lake  was  white  with  swans. 
[13] 


Gbe  Bribe's  prelube. 

Amelotte  spoke  not  any  word 

Nor  moved  she  once ;  but  felt 
Between  her  hands  in  narrow  space 
Her  own  hot  breath  upon  her  face, 
And  kept  in  silence  the  same  place. 

Aloyse  did  not  hear  at  all 

The  sounds  without.     She  heard 
The  inward  voice  (past  help  obey'd) 
Which  might  not  slacken  nor  be  stay'd, 
But  urged  her  till  the  whole  were  said. 

Therefore  she  spoke  again:  "That  night 

But  little  could  be  done: 
My  foot,  held  in  my  nurse's  hands, 
He  swathed  up  heedfully  in  bands, 
And  for  my  rest  gave  close  commands. 

"I  slept  till  noon,  but  an  ill  sleep 

Of  dreams:  through  all  that  day 
My  side  was  stiff  and  caught  the  breath; 
Next  day,  such  pain  as  sickeneth 
Took  me,  and  I  was  nigh  to  death. 

"  Life  strove,  Death  claimed  me  for  his  own, 

Through  days  and  nights:  but  now 
T  was  the  good  father  tended  me, 
Having  returned.     Still,  I  did  see 
The  youth  I  spoke  of  constantly. 

"  For  he  would  with  my  brothers  come 

To  stay  beside  my  couch, 
And  fix  my  eyes  against  his  own, 
Noting  my  pulse;  or  else  alone 
To  sit  at  gaze  while  I  made  moan. 


Gbe  Bribe's 


"  (Some  nights  I  knew  he  kept  the  watch, 

Because  my  women  laid 
The  rushes  thick  for  his  steel  shoes.) 
Through  many  days  this  pain  did  use 
The  life  God  would  not  let  me  lose. 

"At  length,  with  my  good  nurse  to  aid, 

I  could  walk  forth  again  : 
And  still,  as  one  who  broods  or  grieves, 
At  noons  I  'd  meet  him  and  at  eves, 
With  idle  feet  that  drove  the  leaves. 

"The  day  when  I  first  walked  alone 

Was  thinned  in  grass  and  leaf, 
And  yet  a  goodly  day  o'  the  year: 
The  last  bird's  cry  upon  mine  ear 
Left  my  brain  weak,  it  was  so  clear. 

"The  tears  were  sharp  within  mine  eyes. 

I  sat  down,  being  glad, 
And  wept;  but  stayed  the  sudden  flow 
Anon,  for  footsteps  that  fell  slow; 
T  was  that  youth  passed  me,  bowing  low. 

"  He  passed  me  without  speech;  but  when, 

At  least  an  hour  gone  by, 
Rethreading  the  same  covert,  he 
Saw  I  was  still  beneath  the  tree, 
He  spoke  and  sat  him  down  with  me. 

"Little  we  said;  nor  one  heart  heard 

Even  what  was  said  within; 
And,  faltering  some  farewell,  I  soon 
Rose  up;  but  then  i'  the  autumn  noon 
My  feeble  brain  whirled  like  a  swoon. 
[15] 


Bribe's  prelufce. 


"  He  made  me  sit.     '  Cousin,  I  grieve 

Your  sickness  stays  by  you.' 
'I  would,'  said  I,  'that  you  did  err 
So  grieving.     I  am  wearier 
Than  death,  of  the  sickening  dying  year.' 

"  He  answered  :    If  your  weariness 

Accepts  a  remedy, 
I  hold  one  and  can  give  it  you.' 
I  gazed:  'What  ministers  thereto, 
Be  sure,'  I  said,  '  that  I  will  do.' 

"  He  went  on  quickly:  —  'T  was  a  cure 

He  had  not  ever  named 
Unto  our  kin  lest  they  should  stint 
Their  favour,  for  some  foolish  hint 
Of  wizardry  or  magic  in  't  : 

"  But  that  if  he  were  let  to  come 
Within  my  bower  that  night, 
(My  women  still  attending  me, 
He  said,  while  he  remain'd  there,)  he 
Could  teach  me  the  cure  privily. 

"I  bade  him  come  that  night.     He  came; 

But  little  in  his  speech 
Was  cure  or  sickness  spoken  of, 
Only  a  passionate  fierce  love 
That  clamoured  upon  God  above. 

"My  women  wondered,  leaning  close 

Aloof.     At  mine  own  heart 
I  think  great  wonder  was  not  stirr'd. 
I  dared  not  listen,  yet  I  heard 
His  tangled  speech,  word  within  word. 
[16] 


VvYtW    ? 


'0  prelufce. 

H<  m*te  me  sit.     '  Cousin,  I  grieve 

Your  sickness  stays  by  yaw. 
•  {  would,'  said  I,  'that  you  d«l  t« 
So  grieving.     I  am  wearwE 
Than  death,  of  the  sicking'  dying  year. 

"He  answered :    If  your  weariness 

Accepts  a  remedy, 
I  hold  one  and  can  give  it  you.' 
I  gazed:  'What  ministers  thereto, 
Be  sure,    1  said,  '  that  1  will  do.' 


Unto  our 

Their 

Of  wizardry  of  magic  in  t: 

"  But  that  if  he  were  let  to  come 

i;,l  white  he  rematn'd  there,)  he 
C>,  m  tn*  cure  privily. 

I  bade  him  com*  that  night.     He  came; 

Hut  little  in  his  speech 
Was  cure  or  sickness  spoken  of, 
Only  a  passionate  fierce  love 
That  clamoured  upon  God  above. 

My  women  wosxiered,  leaning  close 

Aloof.     At  mine  own  heart 
1  think  great  wonder  was  not  stirr'd. 
1  dared  not  listen,  yet  1  heard 
His  tangled  speech,  word  within  word. 

[16] 


Gbe  Bribe's  prelufce. 

"  He  craved  my  pardon  first, — all  else 

Wild  tumult.     In  the  end 
He  remained  silent  at  my  feet 
Fumbling  the  rushes.     Strange  quick  heat 
Made  all  the  blood  of  my  life  meet. 

"  And  lo!  I  loved  him.     I  but  said, 

If  he  would  leave  me  then, 
His  hope  some  future  might  forecast. 
His  hot  lips  stung  my  hand:  at  last 
My  damsels  led  him  forth  in  haste." 

The  bride  took  breath  to  pause;  and  turned 

Her  gaze  where  Amelotte 
Knelt, — the  gold  hair  upon  her  back 
Quite  still  in  all  its  threads, — the  track 
Of  her  still  shadow  sharp  and  black. 

That  listening  without  sight  had  grown 

To  stealthy  dread;  and  now 
That  the  one  sound  she  had  to  mark 
Left  her  alone  too,  she  was  stark 
Afraid,  as  children  in  the  dark. 

Her  fingers  felt  her  temples  beat; 

Then  came  that  brain-sickness 
Which  thinks  to  scream,  and  murmureth; 
And  pent  between  her  hands,  the  breath 
Was  damp  against  her  face  like  death. 

Her  arms  both  fell  at  once;  but  when 

She  gasped  upon  the  light, 
Her  sense  returned.     She  would  have  pray'd 
To  change  whatever  words  still  stay'd 
Behind,  but  felt  there  was  no  aid. 


Bribe's  prelube. 


So  she  rose  up,  and  having  gone 

Within  the  window's  arch 
Once  more,  she  sat  there,  all  intent 
On  torturing  doubts,  and  once  more  bent 
To  hear,  in  mute  bewilderment. 

But  Aloyse  still  paused.    Thereon 

Amelotte  gathered  voice 
In  somewise  from  the  torpid  fear 
Coiled  round  her  spirit.     Low  but  clear 
She  said:  "  Speak,  sister;  for  I  hear." 

But  Aloyse  threw  up  her  neck 

And  called  the  name  of  God:  — 
"Judge,  God,  'twixt  her  and  me  to-day! 
She  knows  how  hard  this  is  to  say, 
Yet  will  not  have  one  word  away." 

Her  sister  was  quite  silent.     Then 

Afresh:  —  "Not  she,  dear  Lord! 
Thou  be  my  judge,  on  Thee  I  call!  " 
She  ceased,  —  her  forehead  smote  the  wall: 
"  Is  there  a  God,"  she  said,  "  at  all  ?  " 

Amelotte  shuddered  at  the  soul, 

But  did  not  speak.     The  pause 
Was  long  this  time.     At  length  the  bride 
Pressed  her  hand  hard  against  her  side, 
And  trembling  between  shame  and  pride 

Said  by  fierce  effort:  "  From  that  night 

Often  at  nights  we  met: 
That  night,  his  passion  could  but  rave: 
The  next,  what  grace  his  lips  did  crave 
I  knew  not,  but  I  know  I  gave." 
[18] 


Brtoe's  prelufce. 


Where  Amelotte  was  sitting,  all 

The  light  and  warmth  of  day 
Were  so  upon  her  without  shade 
That  the  thing  seemed  by  sunshine  made 
Most  foul  and  wanton  to  be  said. 

She  would  have  questioned  more,  and  known 

The  whole  truth  at  its  worst, 
But  held  her  silent,  in  mere  shame 
Of  day.     'T  was  only  these  words  came:  — 
"Sister,  thou  hast  not  said  his  name." 

"Sister,"  quoth  Aloyse,  "thou  know'st 

His  name.     I  said  that  he 
Was  in  a  manner  of  our  kin. 
Waiting  the  title  he  might  win, 
They  called  him  the  Lord  Urscelyn." 

The  bridgroom's  name,  to  Amelotte 

Daily  familiar,  —  heard 
Thus  in  this  dreadful  history,  — 
Was  dreadful  to  her;  as  might  be 
Thine  own  voice  speaking  unto  thee. 

The  day's  mid-hour  was  almost  full; 

Upon  the  dial-plate 
The  angel's  sword  stood  near  at  One. 
An  hour's  remaining  yet;  the  sun 
Will  not  decrease  till  all  be  done. 

Through  the  bride's  lattice  there  crept  in 

At  whiles  (from  where  the  train 
Of  minstrels,  till  the  marriage-call, 
Loitered  at  windows  of  the  wall,) 
Stray  lute-notes,  sweet  and  musical. 
[19] 


Gbe  Bribe's  prelufce. 

They  clung  in  the  green  growths  and  moss 

Against  the  outside  stone; 
Low  like  dirge- wail  or  requiem 
They  murmured,  lost  'twixt  leaf  and  stem: 
There  was  no  wind  to  carry  them. 

Amelotte  gathered  herself  back 

Into  the  wide  recess 
That  the  sun  flooded:  it  o'erspread 
Like  flame  the  hair  upon  her  head 
And  fringed  her  face  with  burning  red. 

All  things  seemed  shaken  and  at  change: 

A  silent  place  o'  the  hills 
She  knew,  into  her  spirit  came: 
Within  herself  she  said  its  name 
And  wondered  was  it  still  the  same. 

The  bride  (whom  silence  goaded)  now 

Said  strongly, — her  despair 
By  stubborn  will  kept  underneath: — 
"Sister,  't  were  well  thou  didst  not  breathe 
That  curse  of  thine.     Give  me  my  wreath." 

"Sister,"  said  Amelotte,  "abide 

In  peace.     Be  God  thy  judge, 
As  thou  hast  said — not  I.     For  me, 
I  merely  will  thank  God  that  he 
Whom  thou  hast  loved  loveth  thee." 

Then  Aloyse  lay  back,  and  laughed 

With  wan  lips  bitterly, 
Saying,  "Nay,  thank  thou  God  for  this, — 
That  never  any  soul  like  his 
Shall  have  its  portion  where  love  is." 

[20] 


Bribe's  prelufce. 


Weary  of  wonder,  Amelotte 
Sat  silent  :  she  would  ask 
No  more,  though  all  was  unexplained: 
She  was  too  weak  ;  the  ache  still  pained 
Her  eyes,  —  her  forehead's  pulse  remained. 

The  silence  lengthened.     Aloyse 

Was  fain  to  turn  her  face 
Apart,  to  where  the  arras  told 
Two  Testaments,  the  New  and  Old, 
In  shapes  and  meanings  manifold. 

One  solace  that  was  gained,  she  hid. 

Her  sister,  from  whose  curse 
Her  heart  recoiled,  had  blessed  instead! 
Yet  would  not  her  pride  have  it  said 
How  much  the  blessing  comforted. 

Only,  on  looking  round  again 
After  some  while,  the  face 
Which  from  the  arras  turned  away 
Was  more  at  peace  and  less  at  bay 
With  shame  than  it  had  been  that  day. 

She  spoke  right  on,  as  if  no  pause 

Had  come  between  her  speech: 
"  That  year  from  warmth  grew  bleak  and  pass'd," 
She  said;  "the  days  from  first  to  last 
How  slow,  —  woe  's  me!  the  nights  how  fast! 

"  From  first  to  last  it  was  not  known: 

My  nurse,  and  of  my  train 
Some  four  or  five,  alone  could  tell 
What  terror  kept  inscrutable: 
There  was  good  need  to  guard  it  well. 

[21] 


Bribe's 


"Not  the  guilt  only  made  the  shame, 

But  he  was  without  land 
And  born  amiss.     He  had  but  come 
To  train  his  youth  here  at  our  home, 
And,  being  man,  depart  therefrom. 

"Of  the  whole  time  each  single  day 

Brought  fear  and  great  unrest  : 
It  seemed  that  all  would  not  avail 
Some  once,  —  that  my  close  watch  would  fail, 
And  some  sign,  somehow,  tell  the  tale. 

"The  noble  maidens  that  I  knew, 

My  fellows,  oftentimes 
Midway  in  talk  or  sport,  would  look 
A  wonder  which  my  fears  mistook, 
To  see  how  I  turned  faint  and  shook. 

"They  had  a  game  of  cards,  where  each 

By  painted  arms  might  find 
What  knight  she  should  be  given  to, 
Ever  with  trembling  hand  I  threw 
Lest  I  should  learn  the  thing  I  knew. 

"  And  once  it  came.     And  Aure  d'Honvaulx 

Held  up  the  bended  shield 
And  laughed:  '  Gramercy  for  our  share!  — 
If  to  our  bridal  we  but  fare 
To  smutch  the  blazon  that  we  bear!  ' 

"  But  proud  Denise  de  Villenbois 

Kissed  me,  and  gave  her  wench 
The  card,  and  said:  'If  in  these  bowers 
You  women  play  at  paramours, 
You  must  not  mix  your  game  with  ours.' 

F22] 


Bribe's  prelu&e. 


"And  one  upcast  it  from  her  hand: 
'  Lo!  see  how  high  he  '11  soar!  ' 
But  then  their  laugh  was  bitterest; 
For  the  wind  veered  at  fate's  behest 
And  blew  it  back  into  my  breast. 

"Oh!  if  1  met  him  in  the  day 

Or  heard  his  voice,  —  at  meals 
Or  at  the  Mass  or  through  the  hall,  — 
A  look  turned  towards  me  would  appal 
My  heart  by  seeming  to  know  all. 

"Yet  I  grew  curious  of  my  shame, 
And  sometimes  in  the  church, 
On  hearing  such  a  sin  rebuked, 
Have  held  my  girdle-glass  unhooked 
To  see  how  such  a  woman  looked. 

"  But  if  at  night  he  did  not  come, 

1  lay  all  deadly  cold 

To  think  they  might  have  smitten  sore 
And  slain  him,  and  as  the  night  wore, 
His  corpse  be  lying  at  my  door. 

"And  entering  or  going  forth, 

Our  proud  shield  o'er  the  gate 
Seemed  to  arraign  my  shrinking  eyes. 
With  tremors  and  unspoken  lies 
The  year  went  past  me  in  this  wise. 

"  About  the  spring  of  the  next  year 

An  ailing  fell  on  me; 
(I  had  been  stronger  till  the  spring;) 
T  was  mine  old  sickness  gathering, 
I  thought;  but  't  was  another  thing. 
[23] 


Bribe's  prelufce. 


"  I  had  such  yearnings  as  brought  tears, 

And  a  wan  dizziness  : 
Motion,  like  feeling,  grew  intense; 
Sight  was  a  haunting  evidence 
And  sound  a  pang  that  snatched  the  sense. 

"  It  now  was  hard  on  that  great  ill 
Which  lost  our  wealth  from  us 
And  all  our  lands.     Accursed  be 
The  peevish  fools  of  liberty 
Who  will  not  let  themselves  be  free! 

"  The  Prince  was  fled  into  the  west: 

A  price  was  on  his  blood, 
But  he  was  safe.     To  us  his  friends 
He  left  that  ruin  which  attends 
The  strife  against  God's  secret  ends. 

"The  league  dropped  all  asunder,  —  lord, 

Gentle  and  serf.     Our  house 
Was  marked  to  fall.     And  a  day  came 
When  half  the  wealth  that  propped  our  name 
Went  from  us  in  a  wind  of  flame. 

"  Six  hours  I  lay  upon  the  wall 

And  saw  it  burn.     But  when 
It  clogged  the  day  in  a  black  bed 
Of  louring  vapour,  I  was  led 
Down  to  the  postern,  and  we  fled. 

"  But  ere  we  fled,  there  was  a  voice 

Which  I  heard  speak,  and  say 
That  many  of  our  friends,  to  shun 
Our  fate,  had  left  us  and  were  gone, 
And  that  Lord  Urscelyn  was  one. 
[24] 


Bribe's  prelube. 


"That  name,  as  was  its  wont,  made  sight 

And  hearing  whirl.     I  gave 
No  heed  but  only  to  the  name: 
I  held  my  senses,  dreading  them, 
And  was  at  strife  to  look  the  same. 

"  We  rode  and  rode.     As  the  speed  grew, 

The  growth  of  some  vague  curse 
Swarmed  in  my  brain.     It  seemed  to  me 
Numbed  by  the  swiftness,  but  would  be  — 
That  still  —  clear  knowledge  certainly. 

"Night  lapsed.     At  dawn  the  sea  was  there 

And  the  sea-wind:  afar 
The  ravening  surge  was  hoarse  and  loud 
And  underneath  the  dim  dawn-cloud 
Each  stalking  wave  shook  like  a  shroud. 

"  From  my  drawn  litter  I  looked  out 

Unto  the  swarthy  sea, 

And  knew.     That  voice,  which  late  had  cross'd 
Mine  ears,  seemed  with  the  foam  uptoss'd: 
I  knew  that  Urscelyn  was  lost. 

"  Then  I  spake  all:  I  turned  on  one 

And  on  the  other,  and  spake: 
My  curse  laughed  in  me  to  behold 
Their  eyes:  I  sat  up,  stricken  cold, 
Mad  of  my  voice  till  all  was  told. 

"Oh!  of  my  brothers,  Hugues  was  mute, 

And  Gilles  was  wild  and  loud, 
And  Raoul  strained  abroad  his  face, 
As  if  his  gnashing  wrath  could  trace 
Even  there  the  prey  that  it  must  chase. 
[25] 


Bribe's  prelube, 

"And  round  me  murmured  all  our  train, 

Hoarse  as  the  hoarse-tongued  sea; 
Till  Hugues  from  silence  louring  woke, 
And  cried:  '  What  ails  the  foolish  folk  ? 
Know  ye  not  frenzy's  lightning-stroke  ? ' 

"  But  my  stern  father  came  to  them 

And  quelled  them  with  his  look, 
Silent  and  deadly  pale.     Anon 
I  knew  that  we  were  hastening  on, 
My  litter  closed  and  the  light  gone. 

"  And  I  remember  all  that  day 

The  barren  bitter  wind 
Without,  and  the  sea's  moaning  there 
That  I  first  moaned  with  unaware, 
And  when  I  knew,  shook  down  my  hair. 

"  Few  followed  us  or  faced  our  flight: 

Once  only  I  could  hear, 
Far  in  the  front,  loud  scornful  words, 
And  cries  I  knew  of  hostile  lords, 
And  crash  of  spears  and  grind  of  swords. 

"It  was  soon  ended.     On  that  day 

Before  the  light  had  changed 
We  reached  our  refuge ;  miles  of  rock 
Bulwarked  for  war;  whose  strength  might  mock 
Sky,  sea,  or  man,  to  storm  or  shock. 

"Listless  and  feebly  conscious,  I 

Lay  far  within  the  night 
Awake.     The  many  pains  incurred 
That  day, — the  whole,  said,  seen  or  heard, — 
Stayed  by  in  me  as  things  deferred. 
[26] 


Gbe  ffirtoe's  prelufce. 

"Not  long.     At  dawn  I  slept.     In  dreams 

All  was  passed  through  afresh 
From  end  to  end.     As  the  morn  heaved 
Towards  noon,  I,  waking  sore  aggrieved, 
That  1  might  die,  cursed  God,  and  lived. 

"  Many  days  went,  and  I  saw  none 

Except  my  women.     They 
Calmed  their  wan  faces,  loving  me; 
And  when  they  wept,  lest  I  should  see, 
Would  chaunt  a  desolate  melody. 

"  Panic  unthreatened  shook  my  blood 

Each  sunset,  all  the  slow 
Subsiding  of  the  turbid  light. 
I  would  rise,  sister,  as  I  might, 
And  bathe  my  forehead  through  the  night 

"  To  elude  madness.    The  stark  walls 

Made  chill  the  mirk:  and  when 
We  oped  our  curtains,  to  resume 
Sun-sickness  after  long  sick  gloom, 
The  withering  sea-wind  walked  the  room. 

"Through  the  gaunt  windows  the  great  gales 

Bore  in  the  tattered  clumps 
Of  waif- weed  and  the  tamarisk-boughs; 
And  sea-mews,  'mid  the  storm's  carouse, 
Were  flung,  wild-clamouring,  in  the  house. 

"  My  hounds  I  had  not;  and  my  hawk, 

Which  they  had  saved  for  me, 
Wanting  the  sun  and  rain  to  beat 
His  wings,  soon  lay  with  gathered  feet; 
And  my  flowers  faded,  lacking  heat. 
[27] 


Bribe's  prelufce. 


"Such  still  were  griefs:  for  grief  was  still 

A  separate  sense,  untouched 
Of  that  despair  which  had  become 
My  life.     Great  anguish  could  benumb 
My  soul,  —  my  heart  was  quarrelsome. 

"  Time  crept.     Upon  a  day  at  length 

My  kinsfolk  sat  with  me: 
That  which  they  asked  was  bare  and  plain: 
I  answered:  the  whole  bitter  strain 
Was  again  said,  and  heard  again. 

"Fierce  Raoul  snatched  his  sword,  and  turned 

The  point  against  my  breast. 
I  bared  it,  smiling:  'To  the  heart 
Strike  home,'  I  said;  '  another  dart 
Wreaks  hourly  there  a  deadlier  smart.' 

"Twas  then  my  sire  struck  down  the  sword, 

And  said  with  shaken  lips: 
'  She  from  whom  all  of  you  receive 
Your  life,  so  smiled;  and  I  forgive.' 
Thus,  for  my  mother's  sake,  I  live. 

"  But  I,  a  mother  even  as  she, 

Turned  shuddering  to  the  wall: 
For  I  said  :  '  Great  God  !  and  what  would  1  do, 
When  to  the  sword,  with  the  thing  I  knew, 
I  offered  not  one  life  but  two  !  ' 

"Then  I  fell  back  from  them,  and  lay 

Outwearied.     My  tired  sense 
Soon  filmed  and  settled,  and  like  stone 
I  slept;  till  something  made  me  moan, 
And  I  woke  up  at  night  alone. 

[28] 


Brifce'0  prelufce. 


"I  woke  at  midnight,  cold  and  dazed; 

Because  I  found  myself 
Seated  upright,  with  bosom  bare, 
Upon  my  bed,  combing  my  hair, 
Ready  to  go,  I  knew  not  where. 

"  It  dawned  light  day,  —  the  last  of  those 

Long  months  of  longing  days. 
That  noon,  the  change  was  wrought  on  me 
In  somewise,  —  nought  to  hear  or  see,— 
Only  a  trance  and  agony." 

The  bride's  voice  failed  her,  from  no  will 

To  pause.     The  bridesmaid  leaned, 
And  where  the  window-panes  were  white, 
Looked  for  the  day:  she  knew  not  quite 
If  there  were  either  day  or  night. 

It  seemed  to  Aloyse  that  the  whole 
Day's  weight  lay  back  on  her 
Like  lead.     The  hours  that  did  remain 
Beat  their  dry  wings  upon  her  brain 
Once  in  mid-flight,  and  passed  again. 

There  hung  a  cage  of  burnt  perfumes 

In  the  recess  :  but  these, 
For  some  hours,  weak  against  the  sun, 
Had  simmered  in  white  ash.     From  One 
The  second  quarter  was  begun. 

They  had  not  heard  the  stroke.     The  air, 

Though  altered  with  no  wind, 
Breathed  now  by  pauses,  so  to  say: 
Each  breath  was  time  that  went  away,  — 
Each  pause  a  minute  of  the  day. 
[29] 


Bribe's 


I'  the  almonry,  the  almoner, 

Hard  by,  had  just  dispensed 
Church-dole  and  march-dole.     High  and  wide 
Now  rose  the  shout  of  thanks,  which  cried 
On  God  that  He  should  bless  the  bride. 

Its  echo  thrilled  within  their  feet, 

And  in  the  furthest  rooms 
Was  heard,  where  maidens  flushed  and  gay 
Wove  with  stooped  necks  the  wreaths  alway 
Fair  for  the  virgin's  marriage-day. 

The  mother  leaned  along,  in  thought 

After  her  child;  till  tears, 
Bitter,  not  like  a  wedded  girl's, 
Fell  down  her  breast  along  her  curls, 
And  ran  in  the  close  work  of  pearls. 

The  speech  ached  at  her  heart.     She  said: 

"Sweet  Mary,  do  thou  plead 
This  hour  with  thy  most  blessed  Son 
To  let  these  shameful  words  atone, 
That  I  may  die  when  I  have  done." 

The  thought  ached  at  her  soul.     Yet  now:  — 

"Itself—  that  life"  (she  said,) 
"Out  of  my  weary  life  —  when  sense 
Unclosed,  was  gone.     What  evil  men's 
Most  evil  hands  had  borne  it  thence 

"I  knew,  and  cursed  them.     Still  in  sleep 

I  have  my  child;  and  pray 
To  know  if  it  indeed  appear 
As  in  my  dream's  perpetual  sphere, 
That  I  —  death  reached  —  may  seek  it  there. 
[30] 


Bribed 


"Sleeping,  I  wept;  though  until  dark 

A  fever  dried  mine  eyes 
Kept  open;  save  when  a  tear  might 
Be  forced  from  the  mere  ache  of  sight. 
And  I  nursed  hatred  day  and  night. 

"  Aye,  and  I  sought  revenge  by  spells; 

And  vainly  many  a  time 
Have  laid  my  face  into  the  lap 
Of  a  wise  woman,  and  heard  clap 
Her  thunder,  the  fiend's  juggling  trap. 

"At  length  I  feared  to  curse  them,  lest 

From  evil  lips  the  curse 
Should  be  a  blessing;  and  would  sit 
Rocking  myself  and  stifling  it 
With  babbled  jargon  of  no  wit. 

"  But  this  was  not  at  first:  the  days 

And  weeks  made  frenzied  months 
Before  this  came.     My  curses,  pil'd 
Then  with  each  hour  unreconcil'd, 
Still  wait  for  those  who  took  my  child." 

She  stopped,  grown  fainter.     "  Amelotte, 

Surely,"  she  said,  "this  sun 
Sheds  judgment-fire  from  the  fierce  south: 
It  does  not  let  me  breathe:  the  drouth 
Is  like  sand  spread  within  my  mouth." 

The  bridesmaid  rose.     I'  the  outer  glare 
Gleamed  her  pale  cheeks,  and  eyes 
Sore  troubled  ;  and  aweary  weigh'd 
Her  brows  just  lifted  out  of  shade; 
And  the  light  jarred  within  her  head. 
[31] 


Bribe's  prelube. 


'Mid  flowers  fair-heaped  there  stood  a  bowl 

With  water.     She  therein 
Through  eddying  bubbles  slid  a  cup, 
And  offered  it,  being  risen  up, 
Close  to  her  sister's  mouth,  to  sup. 

The  freshness  dwelt  upon  her  sense, 

Yet  did  not  the  bride  drink; 
But  she  dipped  in  her  hand  anon 
And  cooled  her  temples;  and  all  wan 
With  lids  that  held  their  ache,  went  on. 

"Through  those  dark  watches  of  my  woe, 

Time,  an  ill  plant,  had  waxed 
Apace.     That  year  was  finished.     Dumb 
And  blind,  life's  wheel  with  earth's  had  come 
Whirled  round:  and  we  might  seek  our  home. 

"Our  wealth  was  rendered  back,  with  wealth 

Snatched  from  our  foes.     The  house 
Had  more  than  its  old  strength  and  fame: 
But  still  'neath  the  fair  outward  claim 
/  rankled,  —  a  fierce  core  of  shame. 

"It  chilled  me  from  their  eyes  and  lips 

Upon  a  night  of  those 
First  days  of  triumph,  as  I  gazed 
Listless  and  sick,  or  scarcely  raised 
My  face  to  mark  the  sports  they  praised. 

"  The  endless  changes  of  the  dance 

Bewildered  me  :  the  tones 
Of  lute  and  cithern  struggled  tow'rds 
Some  sense;  and  still  in  the  last  chords 
The  music  seemed  to  sing  wild  words. 
[32] 


Bribe's  prelufce. 

"  My  shame  possessed  me  in  the  light 

And  pageant,  till  I  swooned. 
But  from  that  hour  I  put  my  shame 
From  me,  and  cast  it  over  them 
By  God's  command  and  in  God's  name 

"  For  my  child's  bitter  sake.     O  thou 

Once  felt  against  my  heart 
With  longing  of  the  eyes, — a  pain 
Since  to  my  heart  for  ever, — then 
Beheld  not,  and  not  felt  again!  " 

She  scarcely  paused,  continuing:  — 

"That  year  drooped  weak  in  March; 
And  April,  finding  the  streams  dry, 
Choked,  with  no  rain,  in  dust :  the  sky 
Shall  not  be  fainter  this  July. 

"Men  sickened;  beasts  lay  without  strength, 

The  year  died  in  the  land. 
But  I,  already  desolate, 
Said  merely,  sitting  down  to  wait, — 
'The  seasons  change  and  Time  wears  late.' 

"  For  I  had  my  hard  secret  told, 

In  secret,  to  a  priest; 
With  him  I  communed;  and  he  said 
The  world's  soul,  for  its  sins,  was  sped, 
And  the  sun's  courses  numbered. 

"  The  year  slid  like  a  corpse  afloat: 

None  trafficked, — who  had  bread 
Did  eat.     That  year  our  legions,  come 
Thinned  from  the  place  of  war,  at  home 
Found  busier  death,  more  burdensome. 
VOLI-3  [33] 


Bribe's  prelufce. 


"Tidings  and  rumours  came  with  them, 

The  first  for  months.     The  chiefs 
Sat  daily  at  our  board,  and  in 
Their  speech  were  names  of  friend  and  kin; 
One  day  they  spoke  of  Urscelyn. 

"The  words  were  light,  among  the  rest: 

Quick  glance  my  brothers  sent 
To  sift  the  speech  ;  and  I,  struck  through, 
Sat  sick  and  giddy  in  full  view: 
Yet  did  none  gaze,  so  many  knew. 

"  Because  in  the  beginning,  much 

Had  caught  abroad,  through  them 
That  heard  my  clamour  on  the  coast: 
But  two  were  hanged;  and  then  the  most 
Held  silence  wisdom,  as  thou  know'st. 

"That  year  the  convent  yielded  thee 

Back  to  our  home;  and  thou 
Then  knew'st  not  how  I  shuddered  cold 
To  kiss  thee,  seeming  to  enfold 
To  my  changed  heart  myself  of  old. 

"  Then  there  was  showing  thee  the  house, 

So  many  rooms  and  doors  ; 
Thinking  the  while  how  thou  would'st  start 
If  once  I  flung  the  doors  apart 
Of  one  dull  chamber  in  my  heart. 

"And  yet  I  longed  to  open  it; 

And  often  in  that  year 
Of  plague  and  want,  when  side  by  side 
We  ;ve  knelt  to  pray  with  them  that  died, 
My  prayer  was,  '  Show  her  what  I  hide!  '  " 

END  OF  PART  I. 

[34] 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL 


versions  of  this  poem  exist;  that  published 
1  in  The  Germ  in  1850;  the  one  in  The  Oxford  and 
Cambridge  Magazine  in  1856,  and  the  one  in  the  Poems 
of  1870.  Although  the  changes  almost  invariably  im- 
proved the  poem,  the  older  readings  were,  as  Mr. 
Swinburne  has  said,  often  so  good  that  no  one  with- 
out Rossetti's  "insatiable  passion  for  the  best"  would 
have  been  dissatisfied  with  them.  To  afford  the  reader 
opportunity  for  satisfactory  comparison,  the  text  as  it  ap- 
peared in  The  Germ  has  been  reprinted  in  the  notes 
in  full.  The  slighter  variations  in  The  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge Magazine  are  given  in  notes  to  the  later  version. 
Certainly  none  of  Rossetti's  poems  shows  more  the  effect 
of  the  labor  limce  to  which  he  was  so  much  addicted. 

The  theme  of  The  Blessed  Damo^el  was  suggested  by 
Poe's  Raven,  that  poem  and  others  by  Poe  forming,  to 
use  Mr.  William  Rossetti's  expression,  "a  deep  well  of 
delight  "  to  Rossetti  during  his  early  years.  "  I  saw,"  he 
said,  "that  Poe  had  done  the  utmost  it  was  possible  to 
do  with  the  grief  of  the  lover  on  earth,  and  I  determined 
to  reverse  the  conditions,  and  give  utterance  to  the  yearn- 
ing of  the  loved  one  in  heaven." 

The  poem  was  written  in  1847  before  Rossetti  was 
nineteen  years  old.  The  first  picture  painted  by  him  in 
illustration  of  it  is  dated  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century 
later. 


[35] 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL 

(As  published  in  "  The  Germ.") 

THE  blessed  Damozel  leaned  out 
From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven: 

Her  blue  grave  eyes  were  deeper  much 
Than  a  deep  water,  even. 

She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 
And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 

Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem, 
No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn, 

But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift, 
On  the  neck  meetly  worn ; 

And  her  hair,  lying  down  her  back, 
Was  yellow  like  ripe  com. 

Herseemed  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 

One  of  God's  choristers; 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone 

From  that  still  look  of  her's; 
Albeit  to  them  she  left,  her  day 

Had  counted  as  ten  years. 

(To  one  it  is  ten  years  of  years: 

.     .     .     Yet  now,  here  in  this  place, 

Surely  she  leaned  o'er  me, — her  hair 
Fell  all  about  my  face.     .     .     . 

Nothing:  the  Autumn-fall  of  leaves. 
The  whole  year  sets  apace.) 

It  was  the  terrace  of  God's  house 
That  she  was  standing  on, — 

By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 
In  which  Space  is  begun ; 

[36] 


Bleeeefc 


So  high,  that  looking  downward  thence 
She  could  scarce  see  the  sun. 

It  lies  from  Heaven  across  the  flood 

Of  ether,  as  a  bridge. 
Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  blackness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 

But  in  those  tracts,  with  her,  it  was 

The  peace  of  utter  light 
And  silence.     For  no  breeze  may  stir 

Along  the  steady  flight 
Of  seraphim;  no  echo  there, 

Beyond  all  depth  or  height. 

Heard  hardly,  some  of  her  new  friends, 

Playing  at  holy  games, 
Spake,  gentle-mouthed,  among  themselves, 

Their  virginal  chaste  names; 
And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God, 

Went  by  her  like  thin  flames. 

And  still  she  bowed  herself,  and  stooped 

Into  the  vast  waste  calm; 
Till  her  bosom's  pressure  must  have  made 

The  bar  she  leaned  on  warm, 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  bended  arm. 

From  the  fixt  lull  of  heaven,  she  saw 

Time,  like  a  pulse,  shake  fierce 
Through  all  the  worlds.     Her  gaze  still  strove, 

In  that  steep  gulph,  to  pierce 
The  swarm  :  and  then  she  spake,  as  when 

The  stars  sang  in  their  spheres. 

"  I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me, 
For  he  will  come,"  she  said. 

[37] 


Blessed 


'  '  Have  I  not  prayed  in  solemn  heaven  ? 

On  earth,  has  he  not  prayed  ? 
Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength  ? 

And  shall  I  feel  afraid? 

"  When  round  his  head  the  aureole  clings, 

And  he  is  clothed  in  white, 
I  '11  take  his  hand  and  go  with  him 

To  the  deep  wells  of  light; 
And  we  will  step  down  as  to  a  stream 

And  bathe  there  in  God's  sight. 

"  We  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine, 

Occult,  withheld,  untrod, 
Whose  lamps  tremble  continually 

With  prayer  sent  up  to  God; 
And  where  each  need,  revealed,  expects 

Its  patient  period. 

"  We  two  will  lie  i'  the  shadow  of 

That  living  mystic  tree 
Within  whose  secret  growth  the  Dove 

Sometimes  is  felt  to  be, 
While  every  leaf  that  His  plumes  touch 

Saith  His  name  audibly. 

"  And  I  myself  will  teach  to  him— 

I  myself,  lying  so,  — 
The  songs  1  sing  here  ;  which  his  mouth 

Shall  pause  in,  hushed  and  slow, 
Finding  some  knowledge  at  each  pause 

And  some  new  thing  to  know." 

(Alas!  to  her  wise  simple  mind 
These  things  were  all  but  known 

Before:  they  trembled  on  her  sense  — 
Her  voice  had  caught  their  tone. 

Alas  for  lonely  Heaven!  alas 
For  life  wrung  out  alone! 

[38] 


Blessefc  Damosel 


Alas,  and  though  the  end  were  reached  ?    . 

Was  thy  part  understood 
Or  borne  in  trust  ?    And  for  her  sake 

Shall  this  too  be  found  good  ? 
May  the  close  lips  that  knew  not  prayer 

Praise  ever,  though  they  would  ?) 

"  We  two,"  she  said,  "  will  seek  the  groves 

Where  the  lady  Mary  is, 
With  her  five  handmaidens,  whose  names 

Are  five  sweet  symphonies  :  — 
Cecily,  Gertrude,  Magdalen, 

Margaret  and  Rosalys. 

"  Circle-wise  sit  they,  with  bound  locks 

And  bosoms  covered; 
Into  the  fine  cloth,  white  like  flame, 

Weaving  the  golden  thread, 
To  fashion  the  birth-robes  for  them 

Who  are  just  born,  being  dead. 

"  He  shall  fear  haply,  and  be  dumb. 

Then  I  will  lay  my  cheek 
To  his,  and  tell  about  our  love, 

Not  once  abashed  or  weak: 
And  the  dear  Mother  will  approve 

My  pride,  and  let  me  speak. 

"  Herself  shall  bring  us,  hand  in  hand, 

To  him  round  whom  all  souls 
Kneel  —  the  unnumber'd  solemn  heads 

Bowed  with  their  aureoles  : 
And  Angels,  meeting  us,  shall  sing 

To  their  citherns  and  citoles. 

"  There  will  I  ask  of  Christ  the  Lord 
Thus  much  for  him  and  me:  — 

To  have  more  blessing  than  on  earth 
In  nowise  ;  but  to  be 

As  then  we  were,  —  being  as  then 
At  peace.     Yea,  verily. 

[39] 


Blessefc 


"  Yea,  verily;  when  he  is  come 

We  will  do  thus  and  thus  : 
Till  this  my  vigil  seem  quite  strange 

And  almost  fabulous; 
We  two  will  live  at  once,  one  life  ; 

And  peace  shall  be  with  us.  " 

She  gazed  and  listened  and  then  said, 

Less  sad  of  speech  than  mild; 
"  All  this  is  when  he  comes."    She  ceased: 

The  light  thrilled  past  her,  filled 
With  Angels,  in  strong  level  lapse. 

Her  eyes  prayed,  and  she  smiled. 

(I  saw  her  smile.)    But  soon  their  flight 
Was  vague  'mid  the  poised  spheres. 

And  then  she  cast  her  arms  along 
The  golden  barriers, 

And  laid  her  face  between  her  hands, 
And  wept.     (1  heard  her  tears.) 


[40] 


its  my  vigil  *f*»  <n*«  a 
And  almost  fab 
We  two  wSI  8v«  at  «<rK<f,  one 

And  peat-  1  *r 


She  gazed  and  tMHwd  and  then  said, 

Less  sad  of  speech  than  mfld; 
"  All  this  is  when  he  comes."    She  ceased: 

The  light  thrilled  part  her,  filled 
With  Angels,  in  strong  level  lapse. 

Her  eyes  prayed,  and  *be  wniled. 


(1  saw  her  si 
Was  vague  'nw 

And  then  sru-      '' 


,„ 


Blessed  Damo^el,  1879. 


140] 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL 

(With  Four  Illustrations.) 

THE  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 
From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven; 

Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 
Of  waters  stilled  at  even  ' ; 

She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 
And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 

Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem, 
No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn, 

But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift, 
For  service  meetly  worn ; 

Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  back a 
Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

Herseemed  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 

One  of  God's  choristers; 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone 

From  that  still  look  of  hers; 
Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 

Had  counted  as  ten  years. 

(To  one,  it  is  ten  years  of  years. 

.     .     .     Yet  now,  and  in  this  place, 
Surely  she  leaned  o'er  me  —  her  hair 

Fell  all  about  my  face.     .     .     . 
Nothing:  the  autumn-fall  of  leaves. 

The  whole  year  sets  apace.) 
[41] 


Ble00eb  Damosel 


It  was  the  rampart  of  God's  house 

That  she  was  standing  on; 
By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 

The  which  is  Space  begun; 
So  high,  that  looking  downward  thence 

She  scarce  could  see  the  sun. 

It  lies  in  Heaven,  across  the  flood 

Of  ether,  as  a  bridge. 
Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 

Around  her,  lovers,  newly  met 

'Mid  deathless  love's  acclaims, 
Spoke  evermore  among  themselves 

Their  heart-remembered  names'; 
And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God 

Went  by  her  like  thin  flames. 

And  still  she  bowed  herself  and  stooped 

Out  of  the  circling  charm  4; 
Until  her  bosom  must  have  made 

The  bar  she  leaned  on  warm, 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  bended  arm. 

From  the  fixed  place  of  Heaven  she  saw 

Time  like  a  pulse  shake  fierce 
Through  all  the  worlds.    Her  gaze  still  strove 

Within  the  gulf  to  pierce 
Its  path;  and  now  she  spoke  as  when 

The  stars  sang  in  their  spheres. 
£42] 


ZTbe  Bleeseb  Bamosel 

The  sun  was  gone  now;  the  curled  moon 

Was  like  a  little  feather 
Fluttering  far  down  the  gulf;  and  now 

She  spoke  through  the  still  weather. 
Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  the  stars 

Had  when  they  sang  together.5 

(Ah  sweet!    Even  now,  in  that  bird's  song, 

Strove  not  her  accents  there, 
Fain  to  be  hearkened  ?    When  those  bells 

Possessed  the  mid-day  air, 
Strove  not  her  steps  to  reach  my  side 

Down  all  the  echoing  stair?)  * 

"I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me, 

For  he  will  come,"  she  said. 
"  Have  I  not  prayed  in  Heaven  ? — on  earth, 

Lord,  Lord,  has  he  not  pray'd  ? 
Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength  ? 

And  shall  I  feel  afraid  ? 

"When  round  his  head  the  aureole  clings, 

And  he  is  clothed  in  white, 
I  '11  take  his  hand  and  go  with  him 

To  the  deep  wells  of  light; 
As  unto  a  stream  we  will  step  down,7 

And  bathe  there  in  God's  sight. 

"  We  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine, 

Occult,  withheld,  untrod, 
Whose  lamps  are  stirred  continually 

With  prayer  sent  up  to  God ; 
And  see  our  old  prayers,  granted,  melt 

Each  like  a  little  cloud. 
[43] 


Bleseefc 


"  We  two  will  lie  i'  the  shadow  of 

That  living  mystic  tree 
Within  whose  secret  growth  the  Dove 

Is  sometimes  felt  to  be, 
While  every  leaf  that  His  plumes  touch 

Saith  His  Name  audibly. 

"And  I  myself  will  teach  to  him, 

I  myself,  lying  so, 
The  songs  I  sing  here;  which  his  voice 

Shall  pause  in,  hushed  and  slow, 
And  find  some  knowledge  at  each  pause, 

Or  some  new  thing  to  know." 

(Alas!  we  two,  we  two,  thou  say'st! 

Yea,  one  wast  thou  with  me 
That  once  of  old.     But  shall  God  lift 

To  endless  unity 
The  soul  whose  likeness  with  thy  soul 

Was  but  its  love  for  thee  ?)  8 

"  We  two,"  she  said,  "  will  seek  the  groves 

Where  the  lady  Mary  is, 
With  her  five  handmaidens,  whose  names 

Are  five  sweet  symphonies, 
Cecily,  Gertrude,  Magdalen, 

Margaret  and  Rosalys. 

"Circlewise  sit  they,  with  bound  locks 

And  foreheads  garlanded; 
Into  the  fine  cloth  white  like  flame 

Weaving  the  golden  thread, 
To  fashion  the  birth-robes  for  them 

Who  are  just  born,  being  dead. 
[44] 


Bles0et> 


"  He  shall  fear,  haply,  and  be  dumb: 

Then  will  I  lay  my  cheek 
To  his,  and  tell  about  our  love, 

Not  once  abashed  or  weak: 
And  the  dear  Mother  will  approve 

My  pride,  and  let  me  speak. 

"Herself  shall  bring  us,  hand  in  hand, 

To  Him  round  whom  all  souls 
Kneel,  the  clear-ranged  unnumbered  heads* 

Bowed  with  their  aureoles: 
And  angels  meeting  us  shall  sing 

To  their  citherns  and  citoles. 

"There  will  I  ask  of  Christ  the  Lord 
Thus  much  for  him  and  me:  — 

Only  to  live  as  once  on  earth 
With  Love,—  only  to  be,19 

As  then  awhile,  for  ever  now 
Together,  I  and  he." 

She  gazed  and  listened  and  then  said, 
Less  sad  of  speech  than  mild,  — 

"All  this  is  when  he  comes."     She  ceased. 
The  light  thrilled  towards  her,  fill'd  " 

With  angels  in  strong  level  flight. 
Her  eyes  prayed,  and  she  smil'd. 

(I  saw  her  smile.)     But  soon  their  path 
Was  vague  and  distant  spheres: 

And  then  she  cast  her  arms  along  l> 
The  golden  barriers, 

And  laid  her  face  between  her  hands, 
And  wept.     (I  heard  her  tears.) 
[453 


MY  SISTER'S  SLEEP. 

IT  is  interesting  to  note  that  what  would  now  be  called 
the  "  Pre-Raphaelite  detail"  of  this  poem,  written  no 
later  than  1847,  antedates  the  formation  of  the  Pre-Ra- 
phaelite Brotherhood  and  indicates  the  tendency  of  Ros- 
setti's  mind  toward  specific  pictorial  images  before  he 
had  met  any  of  the  men  who  were  afterward  to  belong 
to  that  famous  little  band,  in  whose  literary  organ,  The 
Germ,  the  poem  was  first  printed.  When  it  came  to  be 
reprinted  among  Rossetti's  collected  Poems,  he  took  its 
defects  very  seriously  and  made  a  quantity  of  emenda- 
tions concerning  which  he  was  at  great  pains  to  consult 
his  family  and  friends.  The  version  that  appeared  in 
The  Germ  is  reprinted  in  the  Notes  as  a  record  of  Ros- 
setti's fastidious  care  in  bettering  his  work  where  he  saw 
the  possibility  of  doing  so. 


[46] 


SONGS  OF  ONE  HOUSEHOLD. 

NO.  I. 

MY  SISTER'S  SLEEP. 

(As  published  in  "The  Germ.") 

SHE  fell  asleep  on  Christmas  Eve, 
Upon  her  eyes'  most  patient  calms 
The  lids  were  shut;  her  uplaid  arms 

Covered  her  bosom,  I  believe. 

Our  mother,  who  had  leaned  all  day 
Over  the  bed  from  chime  to  chime, 
Then  raised  herself  for  the  first  time, 

And  as  she  sat  her  down,  did  pray. 

Her  little  work-table  was  spread 
With  work  to  finish.     For  the  glare 
Made  by  her  candle,  she  had  care 

To  work  some  distance  from  the  bed. 

Without,  there  was  a  good  moon  up, 

Which  left  its  shadows  far  within ; 

The  depth  of  light  that  it  was  in 
Seemed  hollow  like  an  altar-cup. 

Through  the  small  room,  with  subtle  sound 
Of  flame,  by  vents  the  fireshine  drove 
And  reddened.     In  its  dim  alcove 

The  mirror  shed  a  clearness  round. 

I  had  been  sitting  up  some  nights, 

And  my  tir'd  mind  felt  weak  and  blank; 

[47] 


Sister's  Sleep. 


Like  a  sharp  strengthening  wine,  it  drank 
The  stillness  and  the  broken  lights. 

Silence  was  speaking  at  my  side 

With  an  exceedingly  clear  voice; 

1  knew  the  calm  as  of  a  choice 
Made  in  God  for  me,  to  abide. 

I  said,  "  Full  knowledge  does  not  grieve: 
This  which  upon  my  spirit  dwells 
Perhaps  would  have  been  sorrow  else: 

But  I  am  glad  'tis  Christmas  Eve." 

Twelve  struck.     That  sound  which  all  the  years 
Hear  in  each  hour,  crept  off;  and  then 
The  ruffled  silence  spread  again, 

Like  water  that  a  pebble  stirs. 

Our  mother  rose  from  where  she  sat: 
Her  needles,  as  she  laid  them  down, 
Met  lightly,  and  her  silken  gown 

Settled  :  no  other  noise  than  that. 

"  Glory  unto  the  Newly  Born!  " 

So  as  said  angels,  she  did  say; 

Because  we  were  in  Christmas-day, 
Though  it  would  still  be  long  till  dawn. 

She  stood  a  moment  with  her  hands 
Kept  in  each  other,  praying  much; 
A  moment  that  the  soul  may  touch 

But  the  heart  only  understands. 

Almost  unwittingly,  my  mind 

Repeated  her  words  after  her; 

Perhaps  tho'  my  lips  did  not  stir; 
It  was  scarce  thought,  or  cause  assign'd. 

Just  then  in  the  room  over  us 

There  was  a  pushing  back  of  chairs, 
As  some  who  had  sat  unawares 

So  late,  now  heard  the  hour,  and  rose. 

[48] 


Sister's  Sleep, 


Anxious,  with  softly  stepping  haste, 
Our  mother  went  where  Margaret  lay, 
Fearing  the  sounds  o'erhead  —  should  they 

Have  broken  her  long-  watched  for  rest! 

She  stooped  an  instant,  calm,  and  turned; 

But  suddenly  turned  back  again; 

And  all  her  features  seemed  in  pain 
With  woe,  and  her  eyes  gazed  and  yearned. 

For  my  part,  I  but  hid  my  face, 

And  held  my  breath,  and  spake  no  word: 
There  was  none  spoken  ;  but  /  heard 

The  silence  for  a  little  space. 

Our  mother  bowed  herself  and  wept. 
And  both  my  arms  fel!,  and  I  said: 
"  God  knows  I  knew  that  she  was  dead." 

And  there,  all  white,  my  sister  slept. 

Then  kneeling,  upon  Christmas  morn 

A  little  after  twelve  o'clock 
We  said,  ere  the  first  quarter  struck, 

"  Christ's  blessing  on  the  newly  born!  " 


[49] 


MY  SISTER'S  SLEEP.1 

SHE  fell  asleep  on  Christmas  Eve. 

At  length  the  long-ungranted  shade 

Of  weary  eyelids  overweigh'd 
The  pain  nought  else  might  yet  relieve. 

Our  mother,  who  had  leaned  all  day 
Over  the  bed  from  chime  to  chime, 
Then  raised  herself  for  the  first  time, 

And  as  she  sat  her  down,  did  pray. 

Her  little  work-table  was  spread 
With  work  to  finish.     For  the  glare 
Made  by  her  candle,  she  had  care 

To  work  some  distance  from  the  bed. 

Without,  there  was  a  cold  moon  up, 
Of  winter  radiance  sheer  and  thin; 
The  hollow  halo  it  was  in 

Was  like  an  icy  crystal  cup. 

Through  the  small  room,  with  subtle  sound 
Of  flame,  by  vents  the  fireshine  drove 
And  reddened.     In  its  dim  alcove 

The  mirror  shed  a  clearness  round. 

I  had  been  sitting  up  some  nights, 
And  my  tired  mind  felt  weak  and  blank; 
Like  a  sharp  strengthening  wine  it  drank 

The  stillness  and  the  broken  lights. 
[50] 


Sister's  Sleep, 


Twelve  struck.     That  sound,  by  dwindling  years 
Heard  in  each  hour,  crept  off  ;  and  then 

The  ruffled  silence  spread  again, 
Like  water  that  a  pebble  stirs. 

Our  mother  rose  from  where  she  sat: 
Her  needles,  as  she  laid  them  down, 
Met  lightly,  and  her  silken  gown 

Settled  :  no  other  noise  than  that. 

"  Glory  unto  the  Newly  Born!  " 

So,  as  said  angels,  she  did  say; 

Because  we  were  in  Christmas  Day, 
Though  it  would  still  be  long  till  morn. 

Just  then  in  the  room  over  us 

There  was  a  pushing  back  of  chairs, 
As  some  who  had  sat  unawares 

So  late,  now  heard  the  hour,  and  rose. 

With  anxious  softly-stepping  haste 
Our  mother  went  where  Margaret  lay, 
Fearing  the  sounds  o'erhead  —  should  they 

Have  broken  her  long  watched-for  rest! 

She  stopped  an  instant,  calm,  and  turned; 

But  suddenly  turned  back  again; 

And  all  her  features  seemed  in  pain 
With  woe,  and  her  eyes  gazed  and  yearned. 

For  my  part,  I  but  hid  my  face, 

And  held  my  breath,  and  spoke  no  word. 

There  was  none  spoken;  but  I  heard 
The  silence  for  a  little  space. 
[50 


Steter's  Sleep. 


Our  mother  bowed  herself  and  wept: 
And  both  my  arms  fell,  and  I  said, 
"God  knows  I  knew  that  she  was  dead. 

And  there,  all  white,  my  sister  slept. 

Then  kneeling,  upon  Christmas  morn 
A  little  after  twelve  o'clock, 
We  said,  ere  the  first  quarter  struck, 

"Christ's  blessing  on  the  newly  born!  " 


[52] 


THE  PORTRAIT. 

The  Portrait  was  written  in  1847  for  a  little  manu- 
script magazine  called  Notch  Potch  that  flourished  in 
the  Rossetti  family  for  a  brief  period,  members  of  the 
family  contributing  to  it.  Rossetti  considered  the  poem 
unworthy  for  publication  in  The  Germ,  and  before  it 
found  its  way  into  the  volume  of  Poems  of  1870  it  was 
to  a  considerable  extent  rewritten.  When,  before  his 
wife's  death,  he  contemplated  publishing  his  poems, 
he  wrote  to  William  Allingham,  with  whom  he  was 
in  consultation,  concerning  poems  to  be  included  or 
omitted: 

"The  one  of  any  length  I  most  thought  of  omitting 
myself  is  The  Portrait,  which  is  rather  spoon-meat;  but 
this,  I  see,  you  do  not  name,  and  perhaps  I  may  leave  it." 

Before  the  volume  of  1881  appeared  a  change  was 
made  in  the  second  stanza  at  the  suggestion  of  Hall 
Caine,  who  found  the  original  reading  somewhat  puz- 
zling. The  fifth  line  originally  ran : 

Yet  this  of  all  love's  perfect  prize. 

The  poem  has  been  described  as  referring  to  Rossetti's 
wife;  but  the  date  of  its  composition  precludes  any  such 
reference.  Very  possibly,  of  course,  in  his  later  addi- 
tions to  it  he  had  his  wife  in  mind. 


[53] 


THE  PORTRAIT.1 

THIS  is  her  picture  as  she  was : 

It  seems  a  thing  to  wonder  on, 
As  though  mine  image  in  the  glass 

Should  tarry  when  myself  am  gone. 
I  gaze  until  she  seems  to  stir, — 
Until  mine  eyes  almost  aver 

That  now,  even  now,  the  sweet  lips  part 

To  breathe  the  words  of  the  sweet  heart  :- 
And  yet  the  earth  is  over  her. 

Alas !  even  such  the  thin-drawn  ray 

That  makes  the  prison-depths  more  rude,- 

The  drip  of  water  night  and  day 
Giving  a  tongue  to  solitude. 

Yet  only  this,  of  love's  whole  prize, 

Remains;  save  what  in  mournful  guise 
Takes  counsel  with  my  soul  alone, — 
Save  what  is  secret  and  unknown, 

Below  the  earth,  above  the  skies. 

In  painting  her  I  shrined  her  face 

'Mid  mystic  trees,  where  light  falls  in 

Hardly  at  all ;  a  covert  place 
Where  you  might  think  to  find  a  din 

Of  doubtful  talk,  and  a  live  flame 

Wandering,  and  many  a  shape  whose  name 
Not  itself  knoweth,  and  old  dew, 
And  your  own  footsteps  meeting  you, 

And  all  things  going  as  they  came. 
[54] 


THE  PORTRAIT.1 

THIS  is  her  picture  as  she  was : 
It  seems  a  thing  to  wonder  on, 

As  though  mine  image  in  the  glass 
Should  tarry  when  myself  am  gone. 

1  gaze  until  she  seems  to  stir, — 

Until  mine  eyes  almost  aver 
That  now,  even  now,  the  sweet  lips  part 
To  breathe  the  words  of  the  sweet  he 

Styfyrtf£t^M$'?,j3l$$pd  Damo^el. 

Red  chalk, 

'     i'VCP    ^Mi'h     ' 


Takes  counsel  with  my  soul  alone, — 
Save  what  is  secret  and  unknown, 
Below  the  earth,  above  the  skies. 

In  painting  her  !  shrined  her  face 

'Mid  mystic  trees,  where  light  falls  in 

Hardly  at  all;  a  covert  place 
Where  you  might  think  to  find  a  din 

Of  doubtful  talk,  and  a  live  flame 

Wandering,  and  many  a  shape  whose  name 
Not  itself  knoweth,  and  old  dew, 
And  your  own  footsteps  meeting  you, 

And  all  things  going  as  they  came. 
[54] 


portrait 


A  deep  dim  wood  ;  and  there  she  stands 

As  in  that  wood  that  day  :  for  so 
Was  the  still  movement  of  her  hands 

And  such  the  pure  line's  gracious  flow. 
And  passing  fair  the  type  must  seem, 
Unknown  the  presence  and  the  dream. 

T  is  she:  though  of  herself,  alas! 

Less  than  her  shadow  on  the  grass 
Or  than  her  image  in  the  stream. 

That  day  we  met  there,  I  and  she 

One  with  the  other  all  alone; 
And  we  were  blithe;  yet  memory 

Saddens  those  hours,  as  when  the  moon 
Looks  upon  daylight.     And  with  her 
I  stooped  to  drink  the  spring-water, 

Athirst  where  other  waters  sprang: 

And  where  the  echo  is,  she  sang,  — 
My  soul  another  echo  there. 

But  when  that  hour  my  soul  won  strength 
For  words  whose  silence  wastes  and  kills, 

Dull  raindrops  smote  us,  and  at  length 
Thundered  the  heat  within  the  hills. 

That  eve  I  spoke  those  words  again 

Beside  the  pelted  window-pane; 

And  there  she  hearkened  what  I  said, 
With  under-glances  that  surveyed 

The  empty  pastures  blind  with  rain. 

Next  day  the  memories  of  these  things, 
Like  leaves  through  which  a  bird  has  flown 

Still  vibrated  with  Love's  warm  wings  ; 
Till  I  must  make  them  all  my  own 
[SSl 


portrait 


And  paint  this  picture.     So,  'twixt  ease 
Of  talk  and  sweet  long  silences, 

She  stood  among  the  plants  in  bloom 

At  windows  of  a  summer  room, 
To  feign  the  shadow  of  the  trees. 

And  as  I  wrought,  while  all  above 

And  all  around  was  fragrant  air, 
In  the  sick  burthen  of  my  love 

It  seemed  each  sun-thrilled  blossom  there 
Beat  like  a  heart  among  the  leaves. 
O  heart  that  never  beats  nor  heaves, 

In  that  one  darkness  lying  still, 

What  now  to  thee  my  love's  great  will 
Or  the  fine  web  the  sunshine  weaves  ? 

For  now  doth  daylight  disavow 

Those  days  —  nought  left  to  see  or  hear. 
Only  in  solemn  whispers  now 

At  night-time  these  things  reach  mine  ear; 
When  the  leaf-shadows  at  a  breath 
Shrink  in  the  road,  and  all  the  heath, 

Forest  and  water,  far  and  wide, 

In  limpid  starlight  glorified, 
Lie  like  the  mystery  of  death. 

Last  night  at  last  I  could  have  slept, 

And  yet  delayed  my  sleep  till  dawn, 
Still  wandering.     Then  it  was  I  wept  : 

For  unawares  I  came  upon 
Those  glades  where  once  she  walked  with  me; 
And  as  I  stood  there  suddenly, 

All  wan  with  traversing  the  night, 

Upon  the  desolate  verge  of  light 
Yearned  loud  the  iron-bosomed  sea. 
[56] 


portrait 


Even  so,  where  Heaven  holds  breath  and  hears 

The  beating  heart  of  Love's  own  breast,  — 
Where  round  the  secret  of  all  spheres 

All  angels  lay  their  wings  to  rest,  — 
How  shall  my  soul  stand  rapt  and  awed, 
When,  by  the  new  birth  borne  abroad 

Throughout  the  music  of  the  suns, 

It  enters  in  her  soul  at  once 
And  knows  the  silence  there  for  God! 

Here  with  her  face  doth  memory  sit 
Meanwhile,  and  wait  the  day's  decline, 

Till  other  eyes  shall  look  from  it, 
Eyes  of  the  spirit's  Palestine, 

Even  than  the  old  gaze  tenderer: 

While  hopes  and  aims  long  lost  with  her 
Stand  round  her  image  side  by  side 
Like  tombs  of  pilgrims  that  have  died 

About  the  Holy  Sepulchre. 


[57] 


JENNY. 

THE  first  version  of  Jenny  was  written  in  1847.  m 
this  early  form  it  had,  according  to  Mr.  William 
Rossetti,  "none  of  that  slight  framework  of  incident 
now  belonging  to  the  poem."  It  was  brought  to  com- 
pletion eleven  years  later,  and  the  manuscript,  together 
with  the  manuscript  copies  of  many  other  poems  written 
by  Rossetti,  was  buried  in  his  wife's  coffin  in  1862.  It 
was  recovered  in  1869  and  revised  prior  to  its  publication 
in  the  volume  of  1870.  Upon  its  appearance  in  that 
volume  Rossetti  wrote  to  his  aunt: 

"I  felt  uncertain  whether  you  would  be  pleased  with 
it.  I  am  not  ashamed  of  having  written  it  (indeed  I  as- 
sure you  that  I  would  never  have  written  it  if  I  thought 
it  unfit  to  be  read  with  good  results) ;  but  I  feared  it 
might  startle  you  somewhat,  and  so  put  off  sending  you 
the  book.  I  now  do  so  by  this  post,  and  hope  that 
some,  if  not  all  of  the  pieces  may  be  quite  to  your  taste. 
Indeed,  I  hope  that  even  Jenny  may  be  so,  for  my 
mother  likes  it  on  the  whole  the  best  in  the  volume, 
after  some  consideration." 

Later  he  said  to  Hall  Caine:  "As  to  Jenny,  it  is  a  ser- 
mon, nothing  less." 

In  1860  Jenny  was  sent  to  Ruskin  for  publication  in 
the  Cornhill;  but  was  returned  with  a  letter  of  sharp 
criticism.  He  objected,  among  other  things,  to  the 
rhyming  of  "Jenny"  with  "guinea,"  but  he  chiefly  dis- 
approved of  the  "cold-blooded"  temper  in  which  the 
philosopher  of  the  poem  conducts  his  meditations. 


[58] 


JENNY. 

Vengeance  of  Jenny's  case!    Fie  on  her  !    Never  name 
her,  child! — (Mrs.  Quickly.) 

LAZY  laughing  languid  Jenny, 
Fond  of  a  kiss  and  fond  of  a  guinea, 
Whose  head  upon  my  knee  to-night 
Rests  for  a  while,  as  if  grown  light 
With  all  our  dances  and  the  sound 
To  which  the  wild  tunes  spun  you  round: 
Fair  Jenny  mine,  the  thoughtless  queen 
Of  kisses  which  the  blush  between 
Could  hardly  make  much  daintier; 
Whose  eyes  are  as  blue  skies,  whose  hair 
Is  countless  gold  incomparable : 
Fresh  flower,  scarce  touched  with  signs  that  tell 
Of  Love's  exuberant  hotbed: — Nay, 
Poor  flower  left  torn  since  yesterday 
Until  to-morrow  leave  you  bare; 
Poor  handful  of  bright  spring-water 
Flung  in  the  whirlpool's  shrieking  face; 
Poor  shameful  Jenny,  full  of  grace 
Thus  with  your  head  upon  my  knee; — 
Whose  person  or  whose  purse  may  be 
The  lodestar  of  your  reverie  ? 

This  room  of  yours,  my  Jenny,  looks 
A  change  from  mine  so  full  of  books, 
C59l 


Whose  serried  ranks  hold  fast,  forsooth, 
So  many  captive  hours  of  youth, — 
The  hours  they  thieve  from  day  and  night 
To  make  one's  cherished  work  come  right, 
And  leave  it  wrong  for  all  their  theft, 
Even  as  to-night  my  work  was  left: 
Until  I  vowed  that  since  my  brain 
And  eyes  of  dancing  seemed  so  fain, 
My  feet  should  have  some  dancing  too: — 
And  thus  it  was  I  met  with  you. 
Well,  I  suppose  't  was  hard  to  part, 
For  here  I  am.     And  now,  sweetheart, 
You  seem  too  tired  to  get  to  bed. 

It  was  a  careless  life  I  led 
When  rooms  like  this  were  scarce  so  strange 
Not  long  ago.     What  breeds  the  change, — 
The  many  aims  or  the  few  years  ? 
Because  to-night  it  all  appears 
Something  I  do  not  know  again. 

The  cloud  's  not  danced  out  of  my  brain, — 
The  cloud  that  made  it  turn  and  swim 
While  hour  by  hour  the  books  grew  dim. 
Why,  Jenny,  as  I  watch  you  there, — 
For  all  your  wealth  of  loosened  hair, 
Your  silk  ungirdled  and  unlac'd 
And  warm  sweets  open  to  the  waist, 
All  golden  in  the  lamplight's  gleam, — 
You  know  not  what  a  book  you  seem, 
Half-read  by  lightning  in  a  dream ! 
How  should  you  know,  my  Jenny  ?    Nay, 
And  I  should  be  ashamed  to  say: — 
Poor  beauty,  so  well  worth  a  kiss  ! 
But  while  my  thought  runs  on  like  this 
[60] 


With  wasteful  whims  more  than  enough, 
I  wonder  what  you  're  thinking  of. 

If  of  myself  you  think  at  all, 
What  is  the  thought?  —  conjectural 
On  sorry  matters  best  unsolved  ? — 
Or  inly  is  each  grace  revolved 
To  fit  me  with  a  lure  ?  —  or  (sad 
To  think!)  perhaps  you're  merely  glad 
That  I  'm  not  drunk  or  ruffianly 
And  let  you  rest  upon  my  knee. 

For  sometimes,  were  the  truth  confess'd, 
You  're  thankful  for  a  little  rest,  — 
Glad  from  the  crush  to  rest  within, 
From  the  heart-sickness  and  the  din 
Where  envy's  voice  at  virtue's  pitch 
Mocks  you  because  your  gown  is  rich ; 
And  from  the  pale  girl's  dumb  rebuke, 
Whose  ill-clad  grace  and  toil-worn  look 
Proclaim  the  strength  that  keeps  her  weak, 
And  other  nights  than  yours  bespeak; 
And  from  the  wise  unchildish  elf, 
To  schoolmate  lesser  than  himself 
Pointing  you  out,  what  thing  you  are: — 
Yes,  from  the  daily  jeer  and  jar, 
From  shame  and  shame  's  outbraving  too, 
Is  rest  not  sometimes  sweet  to  you  ? — 
But  most  from  the  hatefulness  of  man, 
Who  spares  not  to  end  what  he  began, 
Whose  acts  are  ill  and  his  speech  ill, 
Who,  having  used  you  at  his  will, 
Thrusts  you  aside,  as  when  I  dine 
I  serve  the  dishes  and  the  wine. 
[61] 


Jennp. 

Well,  handsome  Jenny  mine,  sit  up: 
I  've  filled  our  glasses,  let  us  sup, 
And  do  not  let  me  think  of  you, 
Lest  shame  of  yours  suffice  for  two. 
What,  still  so  tired  ?    Well,  well  then,  keep 
Your  head  there,  so  you  do  not  sleep; 
But  that  the  weariness  may  pass 
And  leave  you  merry,  take  this  glass, 
Ah !  lazy  lily  hand,  more  bless'd 
If  ne'er  in  rings  it  had  been  dress'd 
Nor  ever  by  a  glove  conceal'd! 

Behold  the  lilies  of  the  field, 
They  toil  not  neither  do  they  spin; 
(So  doth  the  ancient  text  begin, — 
Not  of  such  rest  as  one  of  these 
Can  share.)     Another  rest  and  ease 
Along  each  summer-sated  path 
From  its  new  lord  the  garden  hath, 
Than  that  whose  spring  in  blessings  ran 
Which  praised  the  bounteous  husbandman, 
Ere  yet,  in  days  of  hankering  breath, 
The  lilies  sickened  unto  death. 

What,  Jenny,  are  your  lilies  dead  ? 
Aye,  and  the  snow-white  leaves  are  spread 
Like  winter  on  the  garden-bed. 
But  you  had  roses  left  in  May, — 
They  were  not  gone  too.     Jenny,  nay, 
But  must  your  roses  die,  and  those 
Their  purfled  buds  that  should  unclose  ? 
Even  so;  the  leaves  are  curled  apart, 
Still  red  as  from  the  broken  heart, 
And  here  's  the  naked  stem  of  thorns. 
[62] 


Nay,  nay,  mere  words.     Here  nothing  warns 
As  yet  of  winter.     Sickness  here 
Or  want  alone  could  waken  fear, — 
Nothing  but  passion  wrings  a  tear. 
Except  when  there  may  rise  unsought 
Haply  at  times  a  passing  thought 
Of  the  old  days  which  seem  to  be 
Much  older  than  any  history 
That  is  written  in  any  book; 
When  she  would  lie  in  fields  and  look 
Along  the  ground  through  the  blown  grass, 
And  wonder  where  the  city  was, 
Far  out  of  sight,  whose  broil  and  bale 
They  told  her  then  for  a  child's  tale. 


Jenny,  you  know  the  city  now. 
A  child  can  tell  the  tale  there,  how 
Some  things  which  are  not  yet  enroll'd 
In  market-lists  are  bought  and  sold 
Even  till  the  early  Sunday  light, 
When  Saturday  night  is  market-night 
Everywhere,  be  it  dry  or  wet, 
And  market-night  in  the  Haymarket. 
Our  learned  London  children  know, 
Poor  Jenny,  all  your  pride  and  woe; 
Have  seen  your  lifted  silken  skirt 
Advertise  dainties  through  the  dirt; 
Have  seen  your  coach-wheels  splash  rebuke 
On  virtue;  and  have  learned  your  look 
When,  wealth  and  health  slipped  past,  you  stare 
Along  the  streets  alone,  and  there, 
Round  the  long  park,  across  the  bridge, 
The  cold  lamps  at  the  pavement's  edge 
[63] 


Wind  on  together  and  apart, 
A  fiery  serpent  for  your  heart. 

Let  the  thoughts  pass,  an  empty  cloud! 
Suppose  I  were  to  think  aloud, — 
What  if  to  her  all  this  were  said  ? 
Why,  as  a  volume  seldom  read 
Being  opened  halfway  shuts  again, 
So  might  the  pages  of  her  brain 
Be  parted  at  such  words,  and  thence 
Close  back  upon  the  dusty  sense. 
For  is  there  hue  or  shape  defin'd 
In  Jenny's  desecrated  mind, 
Where  all  contagious  currents  meet, 
A  Lethe  of  the  middle  street  ? 
Nay,  it  reflects  not  any  face, 
Nor  sound  is  in  its  sluggish  pace, 
But  as  they  coil  those  eddies  clot, 
And  night  and  day  remember  not. 

Why,  Jenny,  you  're  asleep  at  last! 
Asleep,  poor  Jenny,  hard  and  fast, — 
So  young  and  soft  and  tired ;  so  fair, 
With  chin  thus  nestled  in  your  hair, 
Mouth  quiet,  eyelids  almost  blue 
As  if  some  sky  of  dreams  shone  through! 

Just  as  another  woman  sleeps! 
Enough  to  throw  one's  thoughts  in  heaps 
Of  doubt  and  horror, — what  to  say 
Or  think, — this  awful  secret  sway, 
The  potter's  power  over  the  clay ! 
Of  the  same  lump  (it  has  been  said) 
For  honour  and  dishonour  made, 
Two  sister  vessels.     Here  is  one. 
[64] 


Jennp. 

My  cousin  Nell  is  fond  of  fun, 
And  fond  of  dress,  and  change,  and  praise, 
So  mere  a  woman  in  her  ways: 
And  if  her  sweet  eyes  rich  in  youth 
Are  like  her  lips  that  tell  the  truth, 
My  cousin  Nell  is  fond  of  love. 
And  she  's  the  girl  I  'm  proudest  of. 
Who  does  not  prize  her,  guard  her  well  ? 
The  love  of  change,  in  cousin  Nell, 
Shall  find  the  best  and  hold  it  dear: 
The  unconquered  mirth  turn  quieter 
Not  through  her  own,  through  others'  woe: 
The  conscious  pride  of  beauty  glow 
Beside  another's  pride  in  her, 
One  little  part  of  all  they  share. 
For  Love  himself  shall  ripen  these 
In  a  kind  soil  to  just  increase 
Through  years  of  fertilising  peace. 

Of  the  same  lump  (as  it  is  said) 
For  honour  and  dishonour  made, 
Two  sister  vessels.     Here  is  one. 

It  makes  a  goblin  of  the  sun. 

So  pure, — so  fall'n!     How  dare  to  think 
Of  the  first  common  kindred  link? 
Yet,  Jenny,  till  the  world  shall  burn 
It  seems  that  all  things  take  their  turn; 
And  who  shall  say  but  this  fair  tree 
May  need,  in  changes  that  may  be, 
Your  children's  children's  charity  ? 
Scorned  then,  no  doubt,  as  you  are  scorn'd! 
Shall  no  man  hold  his  pride  forewarn'd 
Till  in  the  end,  the  Day  of  Days, 

VOL.  I.— 5. 

[65] 


At  Judgment,  one  of  his  own  race, 
As  frail  and  lost  as  you,  shall  rise, — 
His  daughter,  with  his  mother's  eyes  ? 

How  Jenny's  clock  ticks  on  the  shelf ! 
Might  not  the  dial  scorn  itself 
That  has  such  hours  to  register  ? 
Yet  as  to  me,  even  so  to  her 
Are  golden  sun  and  silver  moon, 
In  daily  largesse  of  earth's  boon, 
Counted  for  life-coins  to  one  tune. 
And  if,  as  blindfold  fates  are  toss'd, 
Through  some  one  man  this  life  be  lost, 
Shall  soul  not  somehow  pay  for  soul  ? 

Fair  shines  the  gilded  aureole 
In  which  our  highest  painters  place 
Some  living  woman's  simple  face. 
And  the  stilled  features  thus  descried 
As  Jenny's  long  throat  droops  aside, — 
The  shadows  where  the  cheeks  are  thin, 
And  pure  wide  curve  from  ear  to  chin, — 
With  Raffael's,  Leonardo's  hand  * 
To  show  them  to  men's  souls,  might  stand, 
Whole  ages  long,  the  whole  world  through, 
For  preachings  of  what  God  can  do. 
What  has  man  done  here  ?     How  atone, 
Great  God,  for  this  which  man  has  done  ? 
And  for  the  body  and  soul  which  by 
Man's  pitiless  doom  must  now  comply 
With  lifelong  hell,  what  lullaby 
Of  sweet  forgetful  second  birth 
Remains  ?    All  dark.     No  sign  on  earth 
[66] 


What  measure  of  God's  rest  endows 
The  many  mansions  of  His  house. 

If  but  a  woman's  heart  might  see 
Such  erring  heart  unerringly 
For  once!     But  that  can  never  be. 

Like  a  rose  shut  in  a  book 
In  which  pure  women  may  not  look, 
For  its  base  pages  claim  control 
To  crush  the  flower  within  the  soul; 
Where  through  each  dead  rose-leaf  that  clings, 
Pale  as  transparent  Psyche-wings, 
To  the  vile  text,  are  traced  such  things 
As  might  make  lady's  cheek  indeed 
More  than  a  living  rose  to  read; 
So  nought  save  foolish  foulness  may 
Watch  with  hard  eyes  the  sure  decay; 
And  so  the  life-blood  of  this  rose, 
Puddled  with  shameful  knowledge,  flows 
Through  leaves  no  chaste  hand  may  unclose: 
Yet  still  it  keeps  such  faded  show 
Of  when  't  was  gathered  long  ago, 
That  the  crushed  petals'  lovely  grain, 
The  sweetness  of  the  sanguine  stain, 
Seen  of  a  woman's  eyes,  must  make 
Her  pitiful  heart,  so  prone  to  ache, 
Love  roses  better  for  its  sake : — 
Only  that  this  can  never  be: — 
Even  so  unto  her  sex  is  she. 

Yet,  Jenny,  looking  long  at  you, 
The  woman  almost  fades  from  view. 
A  cipher  of  man's  changeless  sum 
Of  lust,  past,  present,  and  to  come, 
[67] 


Is  left.     A  riddle  that  one  shrinks 

To  challenge  from  the  scornful  sphinx. 

Like  a  toad  within  a  stone 
Seated  while  Time  crumbles  on ; 
Which  sits  there  since  the  earth  was  curs'd 
For  Man's  transgression  at  the  first; 
Which,  living  through  all  centuries, 
Not  once  has  seen  the  sun  arise; 
Whose  life,  to  its  cold  circle  charmed, 
The  earth's  whole  summers  have  not  warmed; 
Which  always — whitherso  the  stone 
Be  flung — sits  there,  deaf,  blind,  alone; — 
Aye,  and  shall  not  be  driven  out 
Till  that  which  shuts  him  round  about 
Break  at  the  very  Master's  stroke, 
And  the  dust  thereof  vanish  as  smoke, 
And  the  seed  of  Man  vanish  as  dust: — 
Even  so  within  this  world  is  Lust. 

Come,  come,  what  use  in  thoughts  like  this  ? 
Poor  little  Jenny,  good  to  kiss, — 
You  'd  not  believe  by  what  strange  roads 
Thought  travels,  when  your  beauty  goads 
A  man  to-night  to  think  of  toads! 
Jenny,  wake  up    ...     Why,  there  's  the  dawn! 

And  there  's  an  early  waggon  drawn 
To  market,  and  some  sheep  that  jog 
Bleating  before  a  barking  dog; 
And  the  old  streets  come  peering  through 
Another  night  that  London  knew; 
And  all  as  ghostlike  as  the  lamps. 
[68] 


So  on  the  wings  of  day  decamps 
My  last  night's  frolic.     Glooms  begin 
To  shiver  off  as  lights  creep  in 
Past  the  gauze  curtains  half  drawn-to, 
And  the  lamp's  doubled  shade  grows  blue, — 
Your  lamp,  my  Jenny,  kept  alight, 
Like  a  wise  virgin's,  all  one  night! 
And  in  the  alcove  coolly  spread 
Glimmers  with  dawn  your  empty  bed; 
And  yonder  your  fair  face  I  see 
Reflected  lying  on  my  knee, 
Where  teems  with  first  foreshadowings 
Your  pier-glass  scrawled  with  diamond  rings: 
And  on  your  bosom  all  night  worn 3 
Yesterday's  rose  now  droops  forlorn, 
But  dies  not  yet  this  summer  morn. 

And  now  without,  as  if  some  word 
Had  called  upon  them  that  they  heard, 
The  London  sparrows  far  and  nigh 
Clamour  together  suddenly; 
And  Jenny's  cage-bird  grown  awake 
Here  in  their  song  his  part  must  take, 
Because  here  too  the  day  doth  break. 

And  somehow  in  myself  the  dawn 
Among  stirred  clouds  and  veils  withdrawn 
Strikes  greyly  on  her.     Let  her  sleep. 
But  will  it  wake  her  if  I  heap 
These  cushions  thus  beneath  her  head 
Where  my  knee  was  ?    No, — there  's  your  bed, 
My  Jenny,  while  you  dream.     And  there 
1  lay  among  your  golden  hair 
Perhaps  the  subject  of  your  dreams, 
[69] 


These  golden  coins. 

For  still  one  deems 
That  Jenny's  flattering  sleep  confers 
New  magic  on  the  magic  purse, — 
Grim  web,  how  clogged  with  shrivelled  flies! 
Between  the  threads  fine  fumes  arise 
And  shape  their  pictures  in  the  brain. 
There  roll  no  streets  in  glare  and  rain, 
Nor  flagrant  man-swine  whets  his  tusk; 
But  delicately  sighs  in  musk 
The  homage  of  the  dim  boudoir; 
Or  like  a  palpitating  star 
Thrilled  into  song,  the  opera-night 
Breathes  faint  in  the  quick  pulse  of  light; 
Or  at  the  carriage-window  shine 
Rich  wares  for  choice;  or,  free  to  dine, 
Whirls  through  its  hour  of  health  (divine 
For  her)  the  concourse  of  the  Park. 
And  though  in  the  discounted  dark 
Her  functions  there  and  here  are  one, 
Beneath  the  lamps  and  in  the  sun 
There  reigns  at  least  the  acknowledged  belle 
Apparelled  beyond  parallel. 
Ah  Jenny,  yes,  we  know  your  dreams. 

For  even  the  Paphian  Venus  seems 
A  goddess  o'er  the  realms  of  love, 
When  silver-shrined  in  shadowy  grove: 
Aye,  or  let  offerings  nicely  plac'd 
But  hide  Priapus  to  the  waist, 
And  whoso  looks  on  him  shall  see 
An  eligible  deity. 

Why,  Jenny,  waking  here  alone 


May  help  you  to  remember  one, 
Though  all  the  memory  's  long  outworn 
Of  many  a  double-pillowed  morn. 
I  think  I  see  you  when  you  wake, 
And  rub  your  eyes  for  me,  and  shake 
My  gold,  in  rising,  from  your  hair, 
A  Danae  for  a  moment  there. 

Jenny,  my  love  rang  true !  for  still 
Love  at  first  sight  is  vague,  until 
That  tinkling  makes  him  audible. 

And  must  I  mock  you  to  the  last, 
Ashamed  of  my  own  shame, — aghast 
Because  some  thoughts  not  born  amiss 
Rose  at  a  poor  fair  face  like  this  ? 
Well,  of  such  thoughts  so  much  I  know: 
In  my  life,  as  in  hers,  they  show, 
By  a  far  gleam  which  I  may  near, 
A  dark  path  I  can  strive  to  clear. 

Only  one  kiss.     Good-bye,  my  dear. 


[71] 


THE  LADY'S  LAMENT. 

(1848.) 

NEVER  happy  any  more! 
Aye,  turn  the  saying  o'er  and  o'er, 
It  says  but  what  it  said  before, 
And  heart  and  life  are  just  as  sore. 
The  wet  leaves  blow  aslant  the  floor 
In  the  rain  through  the  open  door. 
No,  no  more. 

Never  happy  any  more! 
The  eyes  are  weary  and  give  o'er, 
But  still  the  soul  weeps  as  before. 
And  always  must  each  one  deplore 
Each  once,  nor  bear  what  others  bore  ? 
This  is  now  as  it  was  of  yore. 
No,  no  more. 

Never  happy  any  more! 
Is  it  not  but  a  sorry  lore 

That  says,  "  Take  strength,  the  worst  is  o'er." 
Shall  the  stars  seem  as  heretofore  ? 
The  day  wears  on  more  and  more  — 
While  I  was  weeping  the  day  wore. 
No,  no  more. 

Never  happy  any  more! 
In  the  cold  behind  the  door 
[72] 


Xament 


That  was  the  dial  striking  four: 
One  for  joy  the  past  hours  bore, 
Two  for  hope  and  will  cast  o'er, 
One  for  the  naked  dark  before. 
No,  no  more. 

Never  happy  any  more! 
Put  the  light  out,  shut  the  door, 
Sweep  the  wet  leaves  from  the  floor. 
Even  thus  Fate's  hand  has  swept  her  floor, 
Even  thus  Love's  hand  has  shut  the  door 
Through  which  his  warm  feet  passed  of  yore. 
Shall  it  be  opened  any  more  ? 
No,  no,  no  more. 


[73] 


AT  THE  SUNRISE   IN    I848.1 

GOD  said,  Let  there  be  light;  and  there  was  light. 

Then  heard  we  sounds  as  though  the  Earth  did  sing 

And  the  Earth's  angel  cried  upon  the  wing: 
We  saw  priests  fall  together  and  turn  white : 
And  covered  in  the  dust  from  the  sun's  sight, 

A  king  was  spied,  and  yet  another  king. 

We  said:  "The  round  world  keeps  its  balancing; 
On  this  globe,  they  and  we  are  opposite, — 
If  it  is  day  with  us,  with  them  't  is  night. 

Still,  Man,  in  thy  just  pride,  remember  this: — 
Thou  hadst  not  made  that  thy  sons'  sons  shall  ask 
What  the  word  king  may  mean  in  their  day's  task, 

But  for  the  light  that  led :  and  if  light  is, 
It  is  because  God  said,  Let  there  be  light. 


[74] 


AT  THE  SUNRISE   IN    I848.1 

Then  heard  we  sounds  as  though  the  Earth  did  sing 
And  the  Earth's  angel  cried  upon  the  wing: 

of 


We  said:  "The  round  p  ^  :t<  balancing; 

un  this  globe,  they  and  we  arc  opposite, 
If  it  is  day  with  us,  with  them  '  t  w  njph  ; 

Still,  Man,  in  thy  just  pnd«. 

.  Thou  hadst  not  rrwJt  T  shall  ask 

What  the  word  king  •       «-»«m  in  their  day's  task, 

But  for  the  light  thai  led    and  If  light  is. 
It  is  because  God  w-.d.  Let  there  be  light. 


[74] 


AUTUMN  SONG.1 
(1848.) 

KNOW'ST  thou  not  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf 
How  the  heart  feels  a  languid  grief 

Laid  on  it  for  a  covering, 

And  how  sleep  seems  a  goodly  thing 
In  Autumn  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf? 

And  how  the  swift  beat  of  the  brain 

Falters  because  it  is  in  vain, 

In  Autumn  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf 
Knowest  thou  not  ?  and  how  the  chief 

Of  joys  seems — not  to  suffer  pain  ? 

Know'st  thou  not  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf 
How  the  soul  feels  like  a  dried  sheaf 
Bound  up  at  length  for  harvesting, 
And  how  death  seems  a  comely  thing 
In  Autumn  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf? 


[75] 


MARY'S  GIRLHOOD. 

THESE  two  sonnets  are  notable  as  having  been  written 
for   Rossetti's   first   exhibited   picture,  painted  in 
1848,  and  hung  in  the  Free  Exhibition  of  1849. 

The  first  of  the  two  sonnets  appeared  in  the  catalogue 
of  the  exhibition,  and  was  greatly  admired  by  Sir  Theodore 
Martin  who  characterised  it  as  "one  of  the  finest  in  the  lan- 
guage," and  distributed  copies  of  it  among  his  friends. 
Both  sonnets  were  printed  on  a  slip  of  gilt  paper  for  the 
frame  of  the  picture,  the  first  expressing  the  general  in- 
tention of  the  artist  and  the  second  interpreting  the  special 
symbols.  The  figures  in  the  picture  are  all  portraits  and 
good  likenesses.  The  St.  Joachim,  training  up  a  vine  in 
the  background,  was  painted  from  a  man  named  Williams, 
a  "jobbing  man"  employed  in  the  Rossetti  family  to 
black  boots,  etc.  He  entertained  a  special  predilection 
for  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti.  The  St.  Anna  was  painted 
from  Rossetti's  mother,  then  forty-eight  years  old.  The 
Virgin  is  a  likeness  of  Christina  except  that  in  the  picture 
the  hair  is  golden  instead  of  dark  brown,  the  colour  of 
Christina's.  The  little  angel  was  first  painted  from  a 
young  sister  of  Woolner,  the  sculptor,  but  later  repainted 
from  a  model.  Mr.  F.  G.  Stephens  writes  of  the  picture  in 
his  monograph  on  Rossetti:  "A  little  flat  and  gray,  and 
rather  thin  in  painting,  it  is  most  carefully  drawn  and 
soundly  modelled,  rich  in  good  and  pure  colouring;  and  in 
the  brooding,  dreamy  pathos,  full  of  reverence  and  yet 
unconscious  of  the  time  to  come,  which  the  Virgin's 

[76] 


(Birlboofc, 

still  and  chaste  face  expresses,  there  is  a  vein  of  poetry, 
the  freshest  and   most   profound." 

The  picture  was  promptly  sold  for  £80,  the  price  put 
upon  it  by  the  young  painter.  It  was  also  praised  by  the 
critics  who  had  not  yet  opened  their  eyes  to  the  sins  of 
the  Pre-Raphaelite  Brotherhood.  The  first  sonnet  is 
printed  in  Rossetti's  Letters  in  the  following  form : 

This  is  that  Blessed  Mary,  pre-elect 

God's  Virgin.     Gone  is  a  great  while  since  she 

Dwelt  thus  in  Nazareth  of  Galilee. 
Loving  she  was,  with  temperate  respect; 
A  profound  simpleness  of  intellect 

Was  hers,  and  extreme  patience.     From  the  knee 

Faithful  and  hopeful;  wise  in  charity; 
Strong  in  grave  peace;  in  duty  circumspect. 
Thus  held  she  through  her  girlhood ;  as  it  were 

An  angel-watered  lily  that  near  God 

Grows  and  is  quiet.     Till  one  dawn,  at  home 
She  woke  in  her  white  bed,  and  had  no  fear 

At  all,  yet  wept  for  a  brief  period ; 

Because  the  fullness  of  the  time  was  come. 

Rossetti  was  ever  punctilious  concerning  plagiarism, 
and  a  notable  instance  of  his  sensitiveness  on  the  subject 
is  his  explanation  to  his  brother  that  he  is  free  to  write 
"an  angel-watered  lily"  although  in  one  of  his  transla- 
tions from  the  Italian  poet  Mamiani  he  uses  the  expres- 
sion, "an  angel- watered  plant,"  since  the  phrase  was  not 
in  Mamiani  at  all  but  was  an  addition  of  his  own. 


[77] 


MARY'S  GIRLHOOD. 

(For  a  picture.     1848.) 

I. 

THIS  is  that  blessed  Mary,  pre-elect 

God's  Virgin.     Gone  is  a  great  while,  and  she 

Dwelt  young  in  Nazareth  of  Galilee. 
Unto  God's  will  she  brought  devout  respect, 
Profound  simplicity  of  intellect, 

And  supreme  patience.     From  her  mother's  knee 

Faithful  and  hopeful ;  wise  in  charity ; 
Strong  in  grave  peace;  in  pity  circumspect. 

So  held  she  through  her  girlhood;  as  it  were 
An  angel-watered  lily,  that  near  God 

Grows  and  is  quiet.     Till,  one  dawn  at  home 
She  woke  in  her  white  bed,  and  had  no  fear 
At  all, — yet  wept  till  sunshine,  and  felt  awed: 
Because  the  fulness  of  the  time  was  come. 

II. 

THESE  are  the  symbols.     On  that  cloth  of  red 
I'  the  centre  is  the  Tripoint:  perfect  each, 
Except  the  second  of  its  points,  to  teach 

That  Christ  is  not  yet  born.     The  books— whose  head 

Is  golden  Charity,  as  Paul  hath  said— 
Those  virtues  are  wherein  the  soul  is  rich: 
Therefore  on  them  the  lily  standeth,  which 

Is  Innocence,  being  interpreted. 
[78] 


(Birlboofc. 


The  seven-thorn'd  briar  and  the  palm  seven-leaved 
Are  her  great  sorrow  and  her  great  reward. 

Until  the  end  be  full,  the  Holy  One 
Abides  without.     She  soon  shall  have  achieved 
Her  perfect  purity:  yea,  God  the  Lord 
Shall  soon  vouchsafe  His  Son  to  be  her  Son. 


[79] 


THE  CARD-DEALER. 

COULD  you  not  drink  her  gaze  like  wine  ? 

Yet  though  its  splendour  swoon 
Into  the  silence  languidly 

As  a  tune  into  a  tune, 
Those  eyes  unravel  the  coiled  night 

And  know  the  stars  at  noon. 

The  gold  that 's  heaped  beside  her  hand, 

In  truth  rich  prize  it  were; 
And  rich  the  dreams  that  wreathe  her  brows 

With  magic  stillness  there ; 
And  he  were  rich  who  should  unwind 

That  woven  golden  hair. 

Around  her,  where  she  sits,  the  dance 

Now  breathes  its  eager  heat; 
And  not  more  lightly  or  more  true 

Fall  there  the  dancers'  feet 
Than  fall  her  cards  on  the  bright  board 

As  't  were  a  heart  that  beat. 

Her  fingers  let  them  softly  through, 

Smooth  polished  silent  things; 
And  each  one  as  it  falls  reflects 

In  swift  light-shadowings, 
Blood-red  and  purple,  green  and  blue, 

The  great  eyes  of  her  rings. 
[80] 


Car^Dealer, 

Whom  plays  she  with  ?   With  thee,  who  lov'st 

Those  gems  upon  her  hand; 
With  me,  who  search  her  secret  brows; 

With  all  men,  bless'd  or  bann'd. 
We  play  together,  she  and  we, 

Within  a  vain  strange  land: 

A  land  without  any  order, — 
Day  even  as  night,  (one  saith,) — 

Where  who  lieth  down  ariseth  not 
Nor  the  sleeper  awakeneth; 

A  land  of  darkness  as  darkness  itself 
And  of  the  shadow  of  death. 

What  be  her  cards,  you  ask  ?     Even  these: — 

The  heart  that  doth  but  crave 
More,  having  fed;  the  diamond, 

Skilled  to  make  base  seem  brave; 
The  club,  for  smiting  in  the  dark; 

The  spade,  to  dig  a  grave. 

And  do  you  ask  what  game  she  plays  ? 

With  me  'tis  lost  or  won; 
With  thee  it  is  playing  still;  with  him 

It  is  not  well  begun ; 
But  't  is  a  game  she  plays  with  all 

Beneath  the  sway  o'  the  sun. 

Thou  seest  the  card  that  falls, — she  knows 

The  card  that  followeth : 
Her  game  in  thy  tongue  is  called  Life, 

As  ebbs  thy  daily  breath: 
When  she  shall  speak,  thou  'It  learn  her  tongue 

And  know  she  calls  it  Death. 

VOL.    I.— 6. 

[81] 


ON  REFUSAL  OF  AID  BETWEEN 

NATIONS. 

THIS  is  one  of  the  few  political  poems  by  Rossetti,  of 
whose  temper  of  mind  toward  public  questions 
William  Morris  wrote  as  follows:  "I  can't  say  how  it 
was  that  Rossetti  took  no  interest  in  politics;  but  so  it 
was:  of  course  he  was  quite  Italian  in  his  general  turn 
of  thought  though  I  think  he  took  less  interest  in  Italian 
politics  than  in  English,  in  spite  of  his  knowing  several 
of  the  leading  patriots  personally,  Safti  for  instance.  The 
truth  is,  he  cared  for  nothing  but  individual  and  personal 
matters;  chiefly  of  course  in  relation  to  art  and  literature, 
but  he  would  take  abundant  trouble  to  help  any  one 
person  who  was  in  distress  of  mind  or  body;  but  the 
evils  of  any  mass  of  people  he  could  not  bring  his  mind 
to  bear  upon."  (Mackail's  William  Morris,  pp.  92-93.) 
Rossetti  himself  admits  to  Hall  Caine  that  he  never 
read  a  Parliamentary  Debate  in  his  life,  but  adds  that 
some  among  those  whose  opinions  he  most  values  think 
him  "not  altogether  wrong"  when  he  ventures  to 
"speak  of  the  momentary  momentousness  and  eternal 
futility  of  many  noisiest  questions."  The  sonnet  On 
Refusal  of  Aid  between  Nations  refers  to  the  apathy 
with  which  other  countries  witnessed  the  national 
struggles  of  Italy  and  Hungary  against  Austria.  Before 
printing  it  in  the  volume  of  1870  Rossetti  considered 
giving  it  the  somewhat  elaborate  title :  On  the  Refusal  of 
Aid  to  Hungary,  1849,  to  Poland,  1861 ,  to  Crete,  i&6j. 

[82] 


ON  REFUSAL  OF  AID  BETWEEN 

NATIONS. 

NOT  that  the  earth  is  changing,  O  my  God ! 

Nor  that  the  seasons  totter  in  their  walk, — 

Not  that  the  virulent  ill  of  act  and  talk 
Seethes  ever  as  a  winepress  ever  trod, — 
Not  therefore  are  we  certain  that  the  rod 

Weighs  in  thine  hand  to  smite  thy  world ;  though  now 

Beneath  thine  hand  so  many  nations  bow, 
So  many  kings: — not  therefore,  O  my  God!  — 

But  because  Man  is  parcelled  out  in  men 
To-day;  because,  for  any  wrongful  blow 

No  man  not  stricken  asks:  "I  would  be  told 
Why  thou  dost  thus  ";  but  his  heart  whispers  then, 
"  He  is  he,  I  am  I."     By  this  we  know 
That  our  earth  falls  asunder,  being  old. 


[83] 


ON  THE  "  VITA  NUOVA  "  OF  DANTE. 

ROSSETTI  began  translating  Dante's  Vita  Nuova 
when  he  was  about  seventeen  years  old.  In  his 
earlier  youth  he,  together  with  his  brother  and  sisters, 
had  been  alienated  from  study  of  the  great  Florentine  by 
their  father's  absorbing  interest  in  him  and  abstruse 
speculations  concerning  the  interpretation  to  be  put 
upon  his  poetry. 

"Our  Father,  when  writing  about  the  Commedia  or 
the  Vita  Nuova,"  says  Mr.  William  Rossetti,  "was 
seen  surrounded  by  ponderous  folios  in  italic  type,  '  libri 
mistici '  and  the  like  (often  about  alchemy,  freemasonry, 
Brahminism,  Swedenborg,  the  Cabbala,  etc.),  and  filling 
page  after  page  of  prose,  in  impeccable  handwriting,  full 
of  underscorings,  interlineations,  and  cancellings.  We 
contemplated  his  labours  with  a  certain  hushed  feeling, 
which  partook  of  respect  and  also  of  levity,  but  were 
assuredly  not  much  tempted  to  take  up  one  of  his  books, 
and  see  whether  it  would  '  do  to  read.'  "  When  Rossetti 
at  last  took  up  the  Vita  Nuova,  however,  he  found  it 
"do"  so  well  as  to  inspire  many  of  his  nobler  pro- 
ductions in  painting  and  poetry.  In  his  Introduction  to 
the  translation  he  says  of  it:  "The  Vita  Nuova  is  a 
book  which  only  youth  could  have  produced,  and  which 
must  chiefly  remain  sacred  to  the  young;  to  each  of 
whom  the  figure  of  Beatrice,  less  lifelike  than  lovelike, 
will  seem  the  friend  of  his  own  heart." 

[84] 


•  j 


ON  THE  "VITA  NUOVA  "  OF  DANTE. 

As  he  that  loves  oft  looks  on  the  dear  form 
And  guesses  how  it  grew  to  womanhood, 
And  gladly  would  have  watched  the  beauties  bud 

And  the  mild  fire  of  precious  life  wax  warm : 

So  I,  long  bound  within  the  threefold  charm 
Of  Dante's  love  sublimed  to  heavenly  mood, 
Had  marvelled,  touching  his  Beatitude, 

How  grew  such  presence  from  man's  shameful  swarm. 

At  length  within  this  book  I  found  pourtrayed 

Newborn  that  Paradisal  Love  of  his, 
And  simple  like  a  child;  with  whose  clear  aid 

I  understood.     To  such  a  child  as  this, 
Christ,  charging  well  His  chosen  ones,  forbade 

Offence:   "for  lo!  of  such  my  kingdom  is." 


[85] 


A  TRIP  TO  PARIS  AND  BELGIUM. 

THE  trip  commemorated  in  this  group  of  poems  was 
an  important  one  for  Rossetti.  It  was  "the  long- 
est," says  Mr.  William  Rossetti,  "in  point  of  duration 
and  space  combined,  that  he  ever  undertook."  Bruges 
he  found  "a  stunning  place,"  with  "a  quantity  of  first- 
rate  architecture,  and  very  little  or  no  Rubens."  Here 
he  made  acquaintance  with  what  he  called  "the  mirac- 
ulous works  "  of  Memmling  and  Van  Eyck.  His  enthusi- 
asm for  the  pictures  of  the  former  was  unbounded.  "I 
assure  you,"  he  wrote  home  to  the  Brotherhood,  "that 
the  perfection  of  character  and  even  drawing,  the  as- 
tounding finish,  the  glory  of  colour,  and  above  all  the 
pure  religious  sentiment  and  ecstatic  poetry  of  these 
works,  is  not  to  be  conceived  or  described."  In  the 
first  version  of  the  poem  called  Antwerp  and  Bruges, 
Memmling's  name  was  spelled  "  Memmelinck,"  and 
Rossetti  explains  that  this  is  "an  authentic  variation  in 
the  orthography  of  that  stunner's  name  "  and  not  his 
own  invention.  He  adds:  "The  song  is,  of  course, 
quite  original;  there  is  in  particular  a  Yankee  of  the  name 
of  Longfellow  with  whose  works  it  has  no  affinity." 
Arrived  in  Paris,  he  wrote  to  his  brother:  "The  other 
day  we  walked  to  the  Bastille.  Hunt  and  Broodie 
smoked  their  cigars,  while  I,  in  a  fine  frenzy,  conjured  up 
by  association  and  historical  knowledge,  leaned  against 
the  column  of  July  and  composed  the  following  sonnet." 
The  sonnet  referred  to  is  the  one  called  Place  de  la  Bas- 
tille, Paris;  the  first  version  of  which  reads  as  follows: 

[86] 


a  Grip  to  pane  anb  Belgium. 

How  dear  the  sky  hath  been  above  this  place  ! 
Small  treasures  of  this  sky  that  we  see  here, 
Seen  weak  through  prison-bars  from  year  to  year — 

Eyed  with  a  painful  prayer  upon  God's  grace 

To  save,  and  tears  which  stayed  along  the  face 
Lifted  till  the  sun  went.  How  passing  dear 
At  night  when  through  those  bars  a  wind  left  clear 

The  skies  and  moonlight  made  a  mournful  space  ! 

This  was  until,  one  night,  the  secret  kept 
Safe  in  low  vault  and  stealthy  corridor 
Was  blown  abroad  on  a  swift  wind  of  flame 
Above,  God's  sky  and  God  are  still  the  same  ; 

It  may  be  that  as  many  tears  are  wept 
Beneath,  and  that  man  is  but  as  of  yore. 


Antwerp  and  Bruges  was  printed  in  The  Germ  under 
the  title,  The  Carillon,  with  Antwerp  and  Bruges  for  a 
subtitle,  and  a  note  that  reads:  "In  these  and  others  of 
the  Flemish  Towns,  the  Carillon,  or  chimes,  which 
have  a  most  fantastic  and  delicate  music,  are  played 
almost  continually.  The  custom  is  very  ancient."  In 
The  Germ  the  poem  runs  as  follows: 


At  Antwerp,  there  is  a  low  wall 
Binding  the  city,  and  a  moat 
Beneath,  that  the  wind  keeps  afloat. 
You  pass  the  gates  in  a  slow  drawl 
Of  wheels.     If  it  is  warm  at  all 
The  Carillon  will  give  you  thought. 


I  climed  the  stair  in  Antwerp  church, 
What  time  the  urgent  weight  of  sound 
At  sunset  seems  to  heave  it  round. 
Far  up,  the  Carillon  did  search 
The  wind;  and  the  birds  came  to  perch 
Far  under,  where  the  gables  wound. 

[87] 


a  Grip  to  parts  ant>  Belgium. 

In  Antwerp  harbour  on  the  Scheldt 
I  stood  along,  a  certain  space 
Of  night.     The  mist  was  near  my  face : 

Deep  on,  the  flow  was  heard  and  felt. 

The  Carillon  kept  pause,  and  dwelt 
In  music  through  the  silent  place. 

At  Bruges,  when  you  leave  the  train, 
A  singing  numbness  in  your  ears, — 
The  Carillon's  first  sound  appears 
Only  the  inner  moil.     Again 
A  little  minute  though  —  your  brain 
Takes  quiet,  and  the  whole  sense  hears. 

John  Memmeling  and  John  Van  Eyck 
Hold  state  at  Bruges.     In  sore  shame 
I  scanned  the  works  that  keep  their  name. 

The  Carillon,  which  then  did  strike 

Mine  ears,  was  heard  of  theirs  alike; 
It  set  me  closer  unto  them. 


I  climed  at  Bruges  all  the  flight 
The  Belfry  has  of  ancient  stone. 
For  leagues  I  saw  the  east  wind  blown : 

The  earth  was  grey,  the  sky  was  white. 

I  stood  so  near  upon  the  height 

That  my  flesh  felt  the  Carillon. 
October,  1849. 


[88] 


A  TRIP  TO  PARIS  AND  BELGIUM. 
I. 

LONDON   TO    FOLKESTONE. 

A  CONSTANT  keeping-past  of  shaken  trees, 
And  a  bewildered  glitter  of  loose  road; 
Banks  of  bright  growth,  with  single  blades  atop 
Against  white  sky:  and  wires — a  constant  chain — 
That  seem  to  draw  the  clouds  along  with  them 
(Things  which  one  stoops  against  the  light  to  see 
Through  the  low  window;  shaking  by  at  rest, 
Or  fierce  like  water  as  the  swiftness  grows) ; 
And,  seen  through  fences  or  a  bridge  far  off, 
Trees  that  in  moving  keep  their  intervals 
Still  one  'twixt  bar  and  bar;  and  then  at  times 
Long  reaches  of  green  level,  where  one  cow, 
Feeding  among  her  fellows  that  feed  on, 
Lifts  her  slow  neck,  and  gazes  for  the  sound. 

Fields  mown  in  ridges;  and  close  garden-crops 
Of  the  earth's  increase;  and  a  constant  sky 
Still  with  clear  trees  that  let  you  see  the  wind; 
And  snatches  of  the  engine-smoke,  by  fits 
Tossed  to  the  wind  against  the  landscape,  where 
Rooks  stooping  heave  their  wings  upon  the  day. 

Brick  walls  we  pass  between,  passed  so  at  once 
That  for  the  suddenness  I  cannot  know 
[89] 


a  Grip  to  parts  anfc  Belgium* 

Or  what,  or  where  begun,  or  where  at  end. 

Sometimes  a  station  in  grey  quiet;  whence, 

With  a  short  gathered  champing  of  pent  sound, 

We  are  let  out  upon  the  air  again. 

Pauses  of  water  soon,  at  intervals, 

That  has  the  sky  in  it: — the  reflexes 

O'  the  trees  move  towards  the  bank  as  we  go  by, 

Leaving  the  water's  surface  plain.     I  now 

Lie  back  and  close  my  eyes  a  space;  for  they 

Smart  from  the  open  forwardness  of  thought 

Fronting  the  wind. 

I  did  not  scribble  more, 
Be  certain,  after  this;  but  yawned,  and  read, 
And  nearly  dozed  a  little,  I  believe; 
Till,  stretching  up  against  the  carriage-back, 
I  was  roused  altogether,  and  looked  out 
To  where  the  pale  sea  brooded  murmuring.1 

II. 

BOULOGNE    TO    AMIENS    AND    PARIS. 

Strong  extreme  speed,  that  the  brain  hurries  with, 
Further  than  trees,  and  hedges,  and  green  grass 
Whitened  by  distance, — further  than  small  pools 
Held  among  fields  and  gardens,  further  than 
Haystacks,  and  wind-mill-sails,  and  roofs  and  herds,- 
The  sea's  last  margin  ceases  at  the  sun. 

The  sea  has  left  us,  but  the  sun  remains. 
Sometimes  the  country  spreads  aloof  in  tracts 
Smooth  from  the  harvest;  sometimes  sky  and  land 
Are  shut  from  the  square  space  the  window  leaves 
By  a  dense  crowd  of  trees,  stem  behind  stem 
[90] 


a  Grip  to  pans  anfc  Belgium* 

Passing  across  each  other  as  we  pass : 

Sometimes  tall  poplar-wands  stand  white,  their  heads 

Outmeasuring  the  distant  hills.     Sometimes 

The  ground  has  a  deep  greenness;  sometimes  brown 

In  stubble;  and  sometimes  no  ground  at  all, 

For  the  close  strength  of  crops  that  stand  unreaped. 

The  water-plots  are  sometimes  all  the  sun's, — 

Sometimes  quite  green  through  shadows  filling  them, 

Or  islanded  with  growths  of  reeds, — or  else 

Masked  in  grey  dust  like  the  wide  face  o'  the  fields. 

And  still  the  swiftness  lasts;  that  to  our  speed 

The  trees  seem  shaken  like  a  press  of  spears. 

There  is  some  count  of  us : — folks  travelling  capped, 
Priesthood,  and  lank  hard-featured  soldiery, 
Females  (no  women),  blouses,  Hunt,  and  I. 

We  are  relayed  at  Amiens.     The  steam 
Snorts,  chafes,  and  bridles,  like  three  hundred  horse, 
And  flings  its  dusky  mane  upon  the  air. 
Our  company  is  thinned,  and  lamps  alight. 
But  still  there  are  the  folks  in  travelling-caps, 
No  priesthood  now,  but  always  soldiery, 
And  babies  to  make  up  for  show  in  noise; 
Females  (no  women),  blouses,  Hunt,  and  I. 

Our  windows  at  one  side  are  shut  for  warmth ; 
Upon  the  other  side,  a  leaden  sky, 
Hung  in  blank  glare,  makes  all  the  country  dim, 
Which  too  seems  bald  and  meagre, — be  it  truth, 
Or  of  the  waxing  darkness.     Here  and  there 
The  shade  takes  light,  where  in  thin  patches  stand 
The  unstirred  dregs  of  water. 
[91] 


H  Grip  to  pans  anb  Belgium. 

in. 

THE   PARIS   RAILWAY-STATION. 

In  France  (to  baffle  thieves  and  murderers), 
A  journey  takes  two  days  of  passport  work 
At  least.     The  plan  's  sometimes  a  tedious  one, 
But  bears  its  fruit.     Because,  the  other  day, 
In  passing  by  the  Morgue,  we  saw  a  man 
(The  thing  is  common,  and  we  never  should 
Have  known  of  it,  only  we  passed  that  way) 
Who  had  been  stabbed  and  tumbled  in  the  Seine, 
Where  he  had  stayed  some  days.     The  face  was  black, 
And,  like  a  negro's,  swollen ;  all  the  flesh 
Had  furred,  and  broken  into  a  green  mould. 

Now,  very  likely,  he  who  did  the  job 
Was  standing  among  those  who  stood  with  us, 
To  look  upon  the  corpse.     You  fancy  him — 
Smoking  an  early  pipe,  and  watching,  as 
An  artist,  the  effect  of  his  last  work. 
This  always  if  it  had  not  struck  him  that 
'T  were  best  to  leave  while  yet  the  body  took 
Its  crust  of  rot  beneath  the  Seine.     It  may : 
But,  if  it  did  not,  he  can  now  remain 
Without  much  fear.     Only,  if  he  should  want 
To  travel,  and  have  not  his  passport  yet, 
(Deep  dogs  these  French  police!)  he  may  be  caught. 

Therefore  you  see  (lest,  being  murderers, 
We  should  not  have  the  sense  to  go  before 
The  thing  were  known,  or  to  stay  afterwards) 
There  is  good  reason  why — having  resolved 
To  start  for  Belgium — we  were  kept  three  days 
To  learn  about  the  passports  first,  then  do 
[92] 


a  Grip  to  parts  anb  Belgium. 

As  we  had  learned.     This  notwithstanding,  in 
The  fulness  of  the  time  't  is  come  to  pass. 


IV. 


REACHING    BRUSSELS. 

There  is  small  change  of  country;  but  the  sun 
Is  out,  and  it  seems  shame  this  were  not  said. 
For  upon  all  the  grass  the  warmth  has  caught; 
And  betwixt  distant  whitened  poplar-stems 
Makes  greener  darkness;  and  in  dells  of  trees 
Shows  spaces  of  a  verdure  that  was  hid ; 
And  the  sky  has  its  blue  floated  with  white, 
And  crossed  with  falls  of  the  sun's  glory  aslant 
To  lay  upon  the  waters  of  the  world ; 
And  from  the  road  men  stand  with  shaded  eyes 
To  look;  and  flowers  in  gardens  have  grown  strong; 
And  our  own  shadows  here  within  the  coach 
Are  brighter;  and  all  colour  has  more  bloom. 

So,  after  the  sore  torments  of  the  route; — 
Toothache,  and  headache,  and  the  ache  of  wind, 
And  huddled  sleep,  and  smarting  wakefulness, 
And  night,  and  day,  and  hunger  sick  at  food, 
And  twenty-fold  relays,  and  packages 
To  be  unlocked,  and  passports  to  be  found, 
And  heavy  well-kept  landscape;  —  we  were  glad 
Because  we  entered  Brussels  in  the  sun. 

V. 

ANTWERP   TO    GHENT. 

We  are  upon  the  Scheldt.     We  know  we  move 
Because  there  is  a  floating  at  our  eyes 

[93] 


a  Grip  to  Paris  anfc  Belgium, 

Whatso  they  seek;  and  because  all  the  things 
Which  on  our  outset  were  distinct  and  large 
Are  smaller  and  much  weaker  and  quite  grey, 
And  at  last  gone  from  us.     No  motion  else. 

We  are  upon  the  road.     The  thin  swift  moon 
Runs  with  the  running  clouds  that  are  the  sky, 
And  with  the  running  water  runs  —  at  whiles 
Weak  'neath  the  film  and  heavy  growth  of  reeds. 
The  country  swims  with  motion.     Time  itself 
Is  consciously  beside  us,  and  perceived. 
Our  speed  is  such  the  sparks  our  engine  leaves 
Are  burning  after  the  whole  train  has  passed. 

The  darkness  is  a  tumult.    We  tear  on, 
The  roll  behind  us  and  the  cry  before, 
Constantly,  in  a  lull  of  intense  speed 
And  thunder.     Any  other  sound  is  known 
Merely  by  sight.     The  shrubs,  the  trees  your  eye 
Scans  for  their  growth,  are  far  along  in  haze. 
The  sky  has  lost  its  clouds,  and  lies  away 
Oppressively  at  calm :  the  moon  has  failed : 
Our  speed  has  set  the  wind  against  us.     Now 
Our  engine's  heat  is  fiercer,  and  flings  up 
Great  glares  alongside.     Wind  and  steam  and  speed 
And  clamour  and  the  night.     We  are  in  Ghent. 


[94] 


THE     STAIRCASE    OF     NOTRE     DAME, 
PARIS. 

As  one  who,  groping  in  a  narrow  stair, 
Hath  a  strong  sound  of  bells  upon  his  ears, 
Which,  being  at  a  distance  off,  appears 

Quite  close  to  him  because  of  the  pent  air: 

So  with  this  France.  She  stumbles  file  and  square 
Darkling  and  without  space  for  breath :  each  one 
Who  hears  the  thunder  says:  "  It  shall  anon 

Be  in  among  her  ranks  to  scatter  her." 

This  may  be;  and  it  may  be  that  the  storm 
Is  spent  in  rain  upon  the  unscathed  seas, 
Or  wasteth  other  countries  ere  it  die: 
Till  she, —  having  climbed  always  through  the  swarm 
Of  darkness  and  of  hurtling  sound, — from  these 
Shall  step  forth  on  the  light  in  a  still  sky. 


[95] 


PLACE  DE  LA  BASTILLE,  PARIS. 

How  dear  the  sky  has  been  above  this  place! 
Small  treasures  of  this  sky  that  we  see  here 
Seen  weak  through  prison-bars  from  year  to  year; 

Eyed  with  a  painful  prayer  upon  God's  grace 

To  save,  and  tears  that  stayed  along  the  face 
Lifted  at  sunset.     Yea,  how  passing  dear, 
Those  nights  when  through  the  bars  a  wind  left  clear 

The  heaven,  and  moonlight  soothed  the  limpid  space! 

So  was  it,  till  one  night  the  secret  kept 
Safe  in  low  vault  and  stealthy  corridor 

Was  blown  abroad  on  gospel-tongues  of  flame. 
O  ways  of  God,  mysterious  evermore! 
How  many  on  this  spot  have  cursed  and  wept 

That  all  might  stand  here  now  and  own  Thy  Name. 


[96] 


NEAR.  BRUSSELS  — A  HALF-WAY  PAUSE. 

THE  turn  of  noontide  has  begun. 

In  the  weak  breeze  the  sunshine  yields. 

There  is  a  bell  upon  the  fields. 
On  the  long  hedgerow's  tangled  run 

A  low  white  cottage  intervenes : 

Against  the  wall  a  blind  man  leans, 
And  sways  his  face  to  have  the  sun. 

Our  horses'  hoofs  stir  in  the  road, 
Quiet  and  sharp.     Light  hath  a  song 
Whose  silence,  being  heard,  seems  long. 

The  point  of  noon  maketh  abode, 
And  will  not  be  at  once  gone  through. 
The  sky's  deep  colour  saddens  you, 

And  the  heat  weighs  a  dreamy  load. 


VOL.  I.— 7. 


ANTWERP  AND  BRUGES. 

I  CLIMBED  the  stair  in  Antwerp  church, 
What  time  the  circling  thews  of  sound 
At  sunset  seem  to  heave  it  round. 
Far  up,  the  carillon  did  search 
The  wind,  and  the  birds  came  to  perch 
Far  under,  where  the  gables  wound. 

In  Antwerp  harbour  on  the  Scheldt 
I  stood  along,  a  certain  space 
Of  night.     The  mist  was  near  my  face; 

Deep  on,  the  flow  was  heard  and  felt. 

The  carillon  kept  pause,  and  dwelt 
In  music  through  the  silent  place. 

John  Memmeling  and  John  van  Eyck 
Hold  state  at  Bruges.     In  sore  shame 
I  scanned  the  works  that  keep  their  name. 
The  carillon,  which  then  did  strike 
Mine  ears,  was  heard  of  theirs  alike : 
It  set  me  closer  unto  them. 

I  climbed  at  Bruges  all  the  flight 
The  belfry  has  of  ancient  stone. 
For  leagues  I  saw  the  east  wind  blown; 

The  earth  was  grey,  the  sky  was  white. 

I  stood  so  near  upon  the  height 
That  my  flesh  felt  the  carillon. 
[98] 


ON   LEAVING  BRUGES. 

THE  city's  steeple-towers  remove  away, 
Each  singly;  as  each  vain  infatuate  Faith 
Leaves  God  in  heaven,  and  passes.     A  mere  breath 

Each  soon  appears,  so  far.     Yet  that  which  lay 

The  first  is  now  scarce  further  or  more  grey 
Than  the  last  is.     Now  all  are  wholly  gone. 
The  sunless  sky  has  not  once  had  the  sun 

Since  the  first  weak  beginning  of  the  day. 

The  air  falls  back  as  the  wind  finishes, 
And  the  clouds  stagnate.     On  the  water's  face 
The  current  breathes  along,  but  is  not  stirred. 
There  is  no  branch  that  thrills  with  any  bird. 
Winter  is  to  possess  the  earth  a  space, 
And  have  its  will  upon  the  extreme  seas. 


[991 


FOR  A  VIRGIN  AND  CHILD. 

BY  HANS  MEMMELINCK. 
(In  the  Academy  of  Bruges.) 

MYSTERY:  God,  man's  life,  born  into  man 
Of  woman.     There  abideth  on  her  brow 
The  ended  pang  of  knowledge,  the  which  now 

Is  calm  assured.     Since  first  her  task  began 

She  hath  known  all.     What  more  of  anguish  than 
Endurance  oft  hath  lived  through,  the  whole  space 
Through  night  till  day,  passed  weak  upon  her  face 

While  the  heard  lapse  of  darkness  slowly  ran  P1 

All  hath  been  told  her  touching  her  dear  Son, 
And  all  shall  be  accomplished.     Where  He  sits 
Even  now,  a  babe,  He  holds  the  symbol  fruit 
Perfect  and  chosen.     Until  God  permits, 
His  soul's  elect  still  have  the  absolute 
Harsh  nether  darkness,  and  make  painful  moan. 


[100] 


FOR  A  VIRGIN  AND  CHILD. 

BY  HANS  MEMMELINCK. 
(In  tkf  Academy  of  Bruges. ) 

MYSTERY:  God,  man's  life,  born  into  man 
Of  woman.     There  >n  her  brow 

The  ended  pang  of  knowiv  which  now 

<!m  assured.     Since7%£  'BoJ.t  •&fl)i&&. 

wn  all.     Whfitiishesk t>icUKt>it$fifh  than 

jgh,  the  whole  space 
.ik  upon  her  face 


All  hath  been  told  her  touching  her  <kar  Son, 
And  ail  shall  be  ac^-mpl.shed      Whsre  He  sits 
Even  now,  3  babe,  He  holds  the  symbol  fruit 
Perfect  and  chosen.     Until  God  permits, 
His  soul's  elect  still  have  the  absolute 
Harsh  nether  darkness,  and  make  painful  moan. 


[too] 


FOR  A  MARRIAGE  OF  ST.  CATHERINE. 

IN    The     Germ  the   octave   of    this  sonnet   reads  as 
follows : 

MYSTERY  :  Katharine,  the  bride  of  Christ. 
She  kneels,  and  on  her  hand  the  holy  Child 
Setteth  the  ring.     Her  life  is  sad  and  mild, 

Laid  in  God's  knowledge — ever  unenticed 

From  Him,  and  in  the  end  thus  fitly  priced. 
Awe,  and  the  music  that  is  near  her,  wrought 
Of  Angels,  hath  possessed  her  eyes  in  thought: 

Her  utter  joy  is  tier's,  and  hath  sufficed. 


[101] 


FOR  A  MARRIAGE  OF  ST.   CATHERINE. 

BY   HANS  MEMMELINCK. 
(In  the  Hospital  of  St.  John  at  Bruges.) 

MYSTERY  :  Catherine  the  bride  of  Christ. 
She  kneels,  and  on  her  hand  the  holy  Child 
Now  sets  the  ring.     Her  life  is  hushed  and  mild, 

Laid  in  God's  knowledge  —  ever  unenticed 

From  God,  and  in  the  end  thus  fitly  priced. 
Awe,  and  the  music  that  is  near  her,  wrought 
Of  angels,  have  possessed  her  eyes  in  thought: 

Her  utter  joy  is  hers,  and  hath  sufficed. 

There  is  a  pause  while  Mary  Virgin  turns 
The  leaf,  and  reads.     With  eyes  on  the  spread  book, 
That  damsel  at  her  knees  reads  after  her. 
John  whom  He  loved,  and  John  His  harbinger, 
Listen  and  watch.     Whereon  soe'er  thou  look, 
The  light  is  starred  in  gems  and  the  gold  burns. 


[102] 


FOR  AN  ALLEGORICAL  DANCE   OF 
WOMEN. 


BY  ANDREA  MANTEGNA. 

'TpHIS  sonnet  as  it  appeared  in   The  Germ  read  as 
1       follows : 

A  DANCE  OF  NYMPHS. 

BY    ANDREA   MANTEGNA. 

(In  the  Louvre.} 

(%*  It  is  necessary  to  mention  that  this  picture  would 
appear  to  have  been  in  the  artist's  mind  an  allegory, 
which  the  modern  spectator  may  seek  vainly  to  interpret.) 

Scarcely,  I  think ;  yet  it  indeed  may  be 
The  meaning  reached  him,  when  this  music  rang 
Sharp  through  his  brain,  a  distinct  rapid  pang, 

And  he  beheld  these  rocks  and  that  ridg'd  sea 

But  I  believe  he  just  leaned  passively, 
And  felt  their  hair  carried  across  his  face 
As  each  nymph  passed  him;  nor  gave  ear  to  trace 

How  many  feet;  nor  bent  assuredly 

His  eyes  from  the  blind  fixedness  of  thought 
To  see  the  dancers.     It  is  bitter  glad 
Even  unto  tears.     Its  meaning  filleth  k, 
A  portion  of  most  secret  life:  to  wit: — 
Each  human  pulse  shall  keep  the  sense  it  had 

With  all,  though  the  mind's  labour  run  to  nought. 


[103] 


FOR  AN  ALLEGORICAL   DANCE   OF 
WOMEN. 

BY  ANDREA  MANTEGNA. 
(In  the  Louvre. ) 

SCARCELY,  I  think ;  yet  it  indeed  may  be 
The  meaning  reached  him,  when  this  music  rang 
Clear  through  his  frame,  a  sweet  possessive  pang, 

And  he  beheld  these  rocks  and  that  ridged  sea. 

But  I  believe  that,  leaning  tow'rds  them,  he 
Just  felt  their  hair  carried  across  his  face 
As  each  girl  passed  him ;  nor  gave  ear  to  trace 

How  many  feet;  nor  bent  assuredly 

His  eyes  from  the  blind  fixedness  of  thought 
To  know  the  dancers.     It  is  bitter  glad 
Even  unto  tears.     Its  meaning  filleth  it, 
A  secret  of  the  wells  of  Life :  to  wit : — 
The  heart's  each  pulse  shall  keep  the  sense  it  had 

With  all,  though  the  mind's  labour  run  to  nought. 


[104] 


FOR    A  VENETIAN   PASTORAL 

THIS  sonnet  appeared  in  The  Germ  with  the  follow- 
ing note : 

"In  this  picture,  two  cavaliers  and  an  undraped  wo- 
man are  seated  in  the  grass,  with  musical  instruments, 
while  another  woman  dips  a  vase  into  a  well  hard  by, 
for  water." 

The  Germ  version  of  the  Sonnet  reads: 

Water,  for  anguish  of  the  solstice, — yea, 

Over  the  vessel's  mouth  still  widening 

Listlessly  dipt  to  let  the  water  in 
With  slow  vague  gurgle.      Blue,  and  deep  away, 
The  heat  lies  silent  at  the  brink  of  day. 

Now  the  hand  trails  upon  the  viol-string 

That  sobs;  and  the  brown  faces  cease  te  sing, 
Mournful  with  complete  pleasure.      Her  eyes  stray 
In  distance;  through  her  lips  the  pipe  doth  creep 

And  leaves  them  pouting;  the  green  shadowed  grass 

Is  cool  against  her  naked  flesh.      Let  be: 
Do  not  now  speak  unto  her  lest  she  weep, — 

Nor  name  this  ever.      Be  it  as  it  was: — 
Silence  of  heat  and  solemn  poetry. 


FOR  A  VENETIAN   PASTORAL 

BY    GIORGIONE. 
(In  the  Lou-ore.) 

WATER,  for  anguish  of  the  solstice : — nay, 
But  dip  the  vessel  slowly, — nay,  but  lean 
And  hark  how  at  its  verge  the  wave  sighs  in 

Reluctant.     Hush!  beyond  all  depth  away 

The  heat  lies  silent  at  the  brink  of  day: 
Now  the  hand  trails  upon  the  viol-string 
That  sobs,  and  the  brown  faces  cease  to  sing, 

Sad  with  the  whole  of  pleasure.     Whither  stray 

Her  eyes  now,  from  whose  mouth  the  slim  pipes  creep 
And  leave  it  pouting,  while  the  shadowed  grass 
Is  cool  against  her  naked  side?     Let  be : — 

Say  nothing  now  unto  her  lest  she  weep, 
Nor  name  this  ever.     Be  it  as  it  was, — 
Life  touching  lips  with  Immortality. 


[106] 


The  first  form  of  these  sonnets  is  given  in  the  Family 
Letters  of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  as  follows : 

LAST  VISIT  TO  THE  LUXEMBOURG. 
ROGER  RESCUING  ANGELICA  ;  BY  INGRES. 


A  REMOTE  sky,  that  meeteth  the  sea's  brim; 
One  rock-point  standing  buffeted  alone, 
Vexed  at  its  base  with  a  foul  beast  unknown, 

Hell-spurge  of  geomaunt  and  teraphim : 

A  knight,  and  a  winged  creature  bearing  him, 
Reared  at  the  rock:  a  woman  fettered  there, 
Leaning  into  the  hollow  with  loose  hair 

And  throat  let  back  and  heartsick  trail  of  limb. 

The  sky  is  harsh,  and  the  sea  shrewd  and  salt. 
Under  his  lord  the  griffin-horse  ramps  blind 

With  rigid  wings  and  tail.     The  spear's  lithe  stem 
Stands  in  the  roaring  of  those  jaws;  behind, 

The  evil  length  of  body  chafes  at  halt. 

She  doth  not  hear  or  see — she  knows  of  them. 


Clench  thine  eyes  now, — 't  is  the  last  instant,  girl: 
Draw  in  thy  senses,  loose  thy  knees,  and  shake: 
Set  thy  breath  fast:  thy  life  is  keen  awake, — 

Thou  mayst  not  swoon.     Was  that  the  scattered  whirl 

Of  its  foam  drenched  thee  ?  or  the  waves  that  curl 
And  split — bleak  spray  wherein  thy  temples  ache  ? 
Or  was  it  his  thy  champion's  blood,  to  flake 

That  flesh  which  has  the  colour  of  fine  pearl  ? 

Now  silence:  for  the  sea's  is  such  a  sound 
As  irks  not  silence,  and  except  the  sea 

All  is  now  still.     Now  the  dead  thing  doth  cease 
To  writhe  and  drifts.     He  turns  to  her;  and  she, 

Cast  from  the  jaws  of  Death,  remains  there  bound, 
Again  a  woman  in  her  nakedness. 


[I07] 


FOR 
RUGGIERO  AND  ANGELICA.1 

BY  INGRES. 
(1849.) 


A  REMOTE  sky,  prolonged  to  the  sea's  brim : 
One  rock-point  standing  buffeted  alone, 
Vexed  at  its  base  with  a  foul  beast  unknown, 

Hell-birth  of  geomaunt  and  teraphim: 

A  knight,  and  a  winged  creature  bearing  him, 
Reared  at  the  rock :  a  woman  fettered  there, 
Leaning  into  the  hollow  with  loose  hair 

And  throat  let  back  and  heartsick  trail  of  limb. 

The  sky  is  harsh,  and  the  sea  shrewd  and  salt: 
Under  his  lord  the  griffin-horse  ramps  blind 

With  rigid  wings  and  tail.     The  spear's  lithe  stem 
Thrills  in  the  roaring  of  those  jaws:  behind, 
That  evil  length  of  body  chafes  at  fault. 

She  does  not  hear  nor  see — she  knows  of  them. 

n. 

Clench  thine  eyes  now, — 't  is  the  last  instant,  girl  : 
Draw  in  thy  senses,  set  thy  knees,  and  take 
One  breath  for  all:  thy  life  is  keen  awake, — 
Thou  mayst  not  swoon.     Was  that  the  scattered  whirl 
Of  its  foam  drenched  thee  ? — or  the  waves  that  curl 
[108] 


ffor  TRuggiero  anfc  angelica, 

And  split,  bleak  spray  wherein  thy  temples  ache  ? 
Or  was  it  his  the  champion's  blood  to  flake 
Thy  flesh  ? — or  thine  own  blood's  anointing,  girl  ? 

Now,  silence:  for  the  sea's  is  such  a  sound 
As  irks  not  silence;  and  except  the  sea, 

All  now  is  still.     Now  the  dead  thing  doth  cease 
To  writhe,  and  drifts.     He  turns  to  her :  and  she, 
Cast  from  the  jaws  of  Death,  remains  there,  bound, 
Again  a  woman  in  her  nakedness. 


[109] 


FOR 
AN  ANNUNCIATION. 

EARLY  GERMAN. 

THE  lilies  stand  before  her  like  a  screen 
Through  which,  upon  this  warm  and  solemn  day, 
God  surely  hears.     For  there  she  kneels  to  pray 

Who  wafts  our  prayers  to  God — Mary  the  Queen. 

She  was  Faith's  Present,  parting  what  had  been 
From  what  began  with  her,  and  is  for  aye. 
On  either  hand,  God's  twofold  system  lay: 

With  meek  bowed  face  a  Virgin  prayed  between. 

So  prays  she,  and  the  Dove  flies  in  to  her, 
And  she  has  turned.     At  the  low  porch  is  one 

Who  looks  as  though  deep  awe  made  him  to  smile. 
Heavy  with  heat,  the  plants  yield  shadow  there; 
The  loud  flies  cross  each  other  in  the  sun; 
And  the  aisled  pillars  meet  the  poplar-aisle. 


[no] 


FOR 
OUR  LADY  OF  THE  ROCKS. 

BY  LEONARDO  DA  VINCI. 

MOTHER,  is  this  the  darkness  of  the  end, 
The  Shadow  of  Death  ?  and  is  that  outer  sea 
Infinite  imminent  Eternity  ? 

And  does  the  death-pang  by  man's  seed  sustained 

In  Time's  each  instant  cause  thy  face  to  bend 
Its  silent  prayer  upon  the  Son,  while  He 
Blesses  the  dead  with  His  hand  silently 

To  His  long  day  which  hours  no  more  offend  ? 

Mother  of  grace,  the  pass  is  difficult, 
Keen  as  these  rocks,  and  the  bewildered  souls 

Throng  it  like  echoes,  blindly  shuddering  through. 
Thy  name,  O  Lord,  each  spirit's  voice  extols, 

Whose  peace  abides  in  the  dark  avenue 
Amid  the  bitterness  of  things  occult. 


[in] 


AVE. 

THIS,  with  certain  other  early  poems  of  religious  tone, 
Rossetti  at  one  time  grouped  under  the  title  Songs 
of  the  Art  Catholic,  by  which  he  meant  to  suggest,  Mr. 
William  Rossetti  thinks,  that  the  poems  "embodied  con- 
ceptions and  a  point  of  view  related  to  pictorial  art  — 
also  that  this  art  was  in  sentiment,  though  not  necessarily 
in  dogma,  Catholic  —  mediaeval  and  un-modern."  Of 
the  dogmatic  suggestion  in  Axe  Rossetti  was  somewhat 
afraid  when  he  revived  the  poem  for  his  volume  of  1870. 
"  I  hesitated  much  to  print  Am, ' '  he  wrote  to  his  brother, 
"because  of  the  subject;  but  thought  it  well  done,  and 
so  included  it." 


[112] 


AVE. 

THIS,  with  certain  other  early  poems  of  religious  tone, 
Rossetti  at  one  time  grouped  under  the  title  Songs 
of  the  Art  Catkolti  ,  by  which  he  meant  to  suggest,  Mr. 
William  Rossetti  think     that  *hr  poems  "embodied  con- 


aisothat  this  in  fihr&fMA\init(hl$ffluj>h  not  necessarily 
in  dogma,  Catholk—  m«fi*viil  and  un-modem."  Of 
the  dogmatk  was  somewhat 

afraid  when  he  rev.-  e.<  r>f  1870. 

"  I  hesitated  much  to  print  Avt,  hr  w;  H;;':O  his  brother, 
"  because  of  the  suhjnt;  hut  Thought  it  well  done,  and 
so  included  it." 


[112] 


AVE.* 

MOTHER  of  the  Fair  Delight, 
Thou  handmaid  perfect  in  God's  sight, 
Now  sitting  fourth  beside  the  Three, 
Thyself  a  woman-Trinity,— 
Being  a  daughter  born  to  God, 
Mother  of  Christ  from  stall  to  rood, 
And  wife  unto  the  Holy  Ghost:  — 
Oh  when  our  need  is  uttermost, 
Think  that  to  such  as  death  may  strike 
Thou  once  wert  sister  sisterlike! 
Thou  headstone  of  humanity, 
Groundstone  of  the  great  Mystery, 
Fashioned  like  us,  yet  more  than  we! 

Mind'st  thou  not  (when  June's  heavy  breath 
Warmed  the  long  days  in  Nazareth) 
That  eve  thou  didst  go  forth  to  give 
Thy  flowers  some  drink  that  they  might  live 
One  faint  night  more  amid  the  sands  ? 
Far  off  the  trees  were  as  pale  wands 
Against  the  fervid  sky :  the  sea 
Sighed  further  off  eternally 
As  human  sorrow  sighs  in  sleep. 
Then  suddenly  the  awe  grew  deep, 
As  of  a  day  to  which  all  days 
Were  footsteps  in  God's  secret  ways: 

*  A  church  legend  of  the  Blessed  Virgin's  death. 

VOL.  I.— 8.  ["3] 


Until  a  folding  sense,  like  prayer, 
Which  is,  as  God  is,  everywhere, 
Gathered  about  thee;  and  a  voice 
Spake  to  thee  without  any  noise, 
Being  of  the  silence:  —  "Hail,"  it  said, 
"  Thou  that  art  highly  favoured; 
The  Lord  is  with  thee  here  and  now; 
Blessed  among  all  women  thou." 

Ah!  knew'st  thou  of  the  end,  when  first 
That  Babe  was  on  thy  bosom  nurs'd  ?  — 
Or  when  He  tottered  round  thy  knee 
Did  thy  great  sorrow  dawn  on  thee  ? — 
And  through  His  boyhood,  year  by  year 
Eating  with  Him  the  Passover, 
Didst  thou  discern  confusedly 
That  holier  sacrament,  when  He, 
The  bitter  cup  about  to  quaff, 
Should  break  the  bread  and  eat  thereof?  — 
Or  came  not  yet  the  knowledge,  even 
Till  on  some  day  forecast  in  Heaven 
His  feet  passed  through  thy  door  to  press 
Upon  His  Father's  business  ?  — 
Or  still  was  God's  high  secret  kept  ? 

Nay,  but  I  think  the  whisper  crept 
Like  growth  through  childhood.     Work  and  play, 
Things  common  to  the  course  of  day, 
Awed  thee  with  meanings  unfulfill'd; 
And  all  through  girlhood,  something  still'd 
Thy  senses  like  the  birth  of  light, 
When  thou  hast  trimmed  thy  lamp  at  night 
Or  washed  thy  garments  in  the  stream ; 
To  whose  white  bed  had  come  the  dream 
["4] 


Hve. 

That  He  was  thine  and  thou  wast  His 
Who  feeds  among  the  field-lilies. 
O  solemn  shadow  of  the  end 
In  that  wise  spirit  long  contain'd! 
O  awful  end!  and  those  unsaid 
Long  years  when  It  was  Finished! 

Mind'st  thou  not  (when  the  twilight  gone 
Left  darkness  in  the  house  of  John,) 
Between  the  naked  window-bars 
That  spacious  vigil  of  the  stars  ?  — 
For  thou,  a  watcher  even  as  they, 
Wouldst  rise  from  where  throughout  the  day 
Thou  wroughtest  raiment  for  His  poor; 
And,  finding  the  fixed  terms  endure 
Of  day  and  night  which  never  brought 
Sounds  of  His  coming  chariot, 
Wouldst  lift  through  cloud-waste  unexplor'd 
Those  eyes  which  said,   "How  long,  O  Lord?" 
Then  that  disciple  whom  He  loved, 
Well  heeding,  haply  would  be  moved 
To  ask  thy  blessing  in  His  name; 
And  that  one  thought  in  both,  the  same 
Though  silent,  then  would  clasp  ye  round 
To  weep  together, —  tears  long  bound, 
Sick  tears  of  patience,  dumb  and  slow. 
Yet,  "Surely  I  come  quickly," — so 
He  said,  from  life  and  death  gone  home. 
Amen:  even  so,  Lord  Jesus,  come! 

But  oh!  what  human  tongue  can  speak 
That  day  when  Michael  came  to  break1 
From  the  tir'd  spirit,  like  a  veil, 
Its  covenant  with  Gabriel 
["5] 


Hve. 

Endured  at  length  unto  the  end  ? 
What  human  thought  can  apprehend 
That  mystery  of  motherhood 
When  thy  Beloved  at  length  renew'd 
The  sweet  communion  severed, — 
His  left  hand  underneath  thine  head 
And  His  right  hand  embracing  thee  ? — 
Lo!  He  was  thine,  and  this  is  He! 

Soul,  is  it  Faith,  or  Love,  or  Hope, 
That  lets  me  see  her  standing  up 
Where  the  light  of  the  Throne  is  bright  ? 
Unto  the  left,  unto  the  right, 
The  cherubim,  succinct,  conjoint, 
Float  inward  to  a  golden  point, 
And  from  between  the  seraphim 
The  glory  issues  for  a  hymn. 
O  Mary  Mother,  be  not  loth 
To  listen, — thou  whom  the  stars  clothe, 
Who  see'st  and  mayst  not  be  seen ! 
Hear  us  at  last,  O  Mary  Queen ! 
Into  our  shadow  bend  thy  face, 
Bowing  thee  from  the  secret  place, 
O  Mary  Virgin,  full  of  grace ! 


[116] 


WORLD'S  WORTH. 

A  CRITIC  writing  for  The  Catholic  World  concern- 
ing what  he  calls  "  Rossetti's  essentially  Catholic 
tone,"  says  of  this  poem:  "It  is  not  unlike  a  thought 
from  Thomas  a  Kempis  elaborated  into  verse.  That  it 
should  have  been  written  by  the  son  of  a  Neapolitan 
revolutionist  and  exile,  who  with  his  wife  had  lost  the 
faith,  and  by  a  man  who  never  outwardly  professed  a 
belief  in  Catholicity,  would  seem  to  mean  that  Rossetti 
inherited  from  more  faithful  ancestors  a  kind  of  senti- 
ment which  neither  home  influence  nor  education  in 
acknowledged  religious  beliefs  could  have  produced." 

Although  Rossetti  became  a  sceptic  very  early  in  his 
life  he  was  certainly  not  the  generally  accepted  type  of 
atheist.  "Although  he  had  been  trained  in  the  An- 
glican Church,"  writes  his  brother,  "such  Christian 
sympathies  as  he  had  went  entirely  in  the  direction  of 
Catholicism,  and  not  in  the  least  of  Protestantism."  And 
from  the  same  authority  we  learn  that  he  had  "  an  abid- 
ing and  very  deep  reverence  for  the  person  of  Christ "; 
holding  Him  to  be  "certainly  something  more  than 
man." 

In  The  Germ  the  following  poem  was  printed  under 
the  title  Pax  Vobis  and  ran  thus  : 

'T  is  of  the  Father  Hilary. 
He  strove,  but  could  not  pray:  so  took 
The  darkened  stair,  where  his  feet  shook 

A  sad  blind  echo.     He  kept  up 


Worlds  UdortFx 

Slowly.     T  was  a  chill  sway  of  air 

That  autumn  noon  within  the  stair, 
Sick,  dizzy,  like  a  turning  cup. 

His  brain  perplexed  him,  void  and  thin  : 

He  shut  his  eyes  and  felt  it  spin  ; 

The  obscure  deafness  hemmed  him  in. 
He  said  :  "  The  air  is  calm  outside." 

He  leaned  unto  the  gallery 

Where  the  chime  keeps  the  night  and  day  : 

It  hurt  his  brain, — he  could  not  pray. 
He  had  his  face  upon  the  stone  ; 

Deep  'twixt  the  narrow  shafts,  his  eye 

Passed  all  the  roofs  unto  the  sky 
Whose  greyness  the  wind  swept  alone. 

Close  by  his  feet  he  saw  it  shake 

With  wind  in  pools  that  the  rains  make ; 

The  ripple  set  his  eyes  to  ache. 
He  said  :  "  Calm  hath  its  peace  outside." 

He  stood  within  the  mystery 

Girding  God's  blessed  Eucharist  : 

The  organ  and  the  chaunt  had  ceased  : 
A  few  words  paused  against  his  ear, 

Said  from  the  altar  :  drawn  round  him, 

The  silence  was  at  rest  and  dim. 
He  could  not  pray.     The  bell  shook  clear 

And  ceased.     All  was  great  awe, — the  breath 

Of  God  in  man,  that  warranteth 

Wholly  the  inner  things  of  Faith. 
He  said  :  "  There  is  the  world  outside." 


Ghent:  Church  of  St.  Tiavon. 


[118] 


WORLD'S  WORTH. 

'T  is  of  the  Father  Hilary. 

He  strove,  but  could  not  pray;  so  took 

The  steep-coiled  stair,  where  his  feet  shook 
A  sad  blind  echo.     Ever  up 

He  toiled.     T  was  a  sick  sway  of  air 

That  autumn  noon  within  the  stair, 
As  dizzy  as  a  turning  cup. 

His  brain  benumbed  him,  void  and  thin; 

He  shut  his  eyes  and  felt  it  spin ; 

The  obscure  deafness  hemmed  him  in. 
He  said:  "  O  world,  what  world  for  me  ?" 

He  leaned  unto  the  balcony 

Where  the  chime  keeps  the  night  and  day; 

It  hurt  his  brain,  he  could  not  pray. 
He  had  his  face  upon  the  stone: 

Deep  'twixt  the  narrow  shafts,  his  eye 

Passed  all  the  roofs  to  the  stark  sky, 
Swept  with  no  wing,  with  wind  alone. 

Close  to  his  feet  the  sky  did  shake 

With  wind  in  pools  that  the  rains  make: 

The  ripples  set  his  eyes  to  ache. 
He  said:  "O  world,  what  world  for  me?" 

He  stood  within  the  mystery 
Girding  God's  blessed  Eucharist: 
The  organ  and  the  chaunt  had  ceas'd. 
["9] 


Morifc's  Mortlx 

The  last  words  paused  against  his  ear 
Said  from  the  altar:  drawn  round  him 
The  gathering  rest  was  dumb  and  dim. 

And  now  the  sacring-bell  rang  clear 
And  ceased;  and  all  was  awe, — the  breath 
Of  God  in  man  that  warranteth 
The  inmost,  utmost  things  of  faith. 

He  said:  "  O  God,  my  world  in  Thee!  " 


[120] 


SONG  AND  MUSIC. 

O  LEAVE  your  hand  where  it  lies  cool 
Upon  the  eyes  whose  lids  are  hot: 

Its  rosy  shade  is  bountiful 
Of  silence,  and  assuages  thought. 

O  lay  your  lips  against  your  hand 
And  let  me  feel  your  breath  through  it, 

While  through  the  sense  your  song  shall  fit 
The  soul  to  understand. 

The  music  lives  upon  my  brain 

Between  your  hands  within  mine  eyes; 

It  stirs  your  lifted  throat  like  pain, 
An  aching  pulse  of  melodies. 

Lean  nearer,  let  the  music  pause: 
The  soul  may  better  understand 

Your  music,  shadowed  in  your  hand 
Now  while  the  song  withdraws. 


[121] 


THE  SEA-LIMITS. 

THE  germ  of  this  beautiful  lyric  is  found  in  a  couple 
of  stanzas  written   on  Rossetti's  foreign  trip  of 
1849.     These  were  entitled,  "At  Boulogne.     Upon  the 
Cliffs:  Noon,"  and  ran  as  follows: 

The  Sea  is  in  its  listless  chime, 

Like  Time's  lapse  rendered  audible; 

The  murmur  of  the  earth's  large  shell. 
In  a  sad  blueness  beyond  rhyme 

It  ends;  Sense,  without  Thought,  can  pass 

No  stadium  further.  Since  Time  was, 
This  sound  hath  told  the  lapse  of  Time. 

No  stagnance  that  Death  wins, — it  hath 

The  mournfulness  of  ancient  Life, 

Always  enduring  at  dull  strife 
Like  the  world's  heart,  in  calm  and  wrath 

Its  painful  pulse  is  in  the  sands. 

Last  utterly,  the  whole  sky  stands, 
Grey  and  not  known,  along  its  path. 

As  it  was  printed  in  The  Germ  the  second  line  of  the 
first  stanza  read:  "Time's  lapse  it  is,  made  audible," — 
and  the  fourth  line  of  the  second  stanza  read:  "As  the 
world's  heart  of  rest  and  wrath."  The  title  in  The  Germ 
was  "  From  the  Cliffs  :  Noon." 


[122] 


THE  SEA-LIMITS. 

(1849-55.) 

CONSIDER  the  sea's  listless  chime: 
Time's  self  it  is,  made  audible, — 
The  murmur  dT  the  earth's  own  shell. 

Secret  continuance  sublime 
Is  the  sea's  end :  our  sight  may  pass 
No  furlong  further.     Since  time  was, 

This  sound  hath  told  the  lapse  of  time. 

No  quiet,  which  is  death's, — it  hath 

The  mournfulness  of  ancient  life, 

Enduring  always  at  dull  strife. 
As  the  world's  heart  of  rest  and  wrath, 

Its  painful  pulse  is  in  the  sands. 

Last  utterly,  the  whole  sky  stands, 
Grey  and  not  known,  along  its  path. 

Listen  alone  beside  the  sea, 

Listen  alone  among  the  woods; 

Those  voices  of  twin  solitudes 
Shall  have  one  sound  alike  to  thee: 

Hark  where  the  murmurs  of  thronged  men 

Surge  and  sink  back  and  surge  again, — 
Still  the  one  voice  of  wave  and  tree. 

Gather  a  shell  from  the  strown  beach 

And  listen  at  its  lips:  they  sigh 

The  same  desire  and  mystery, 
The  echo  of  the  whole  sea's  speech. 

And  all  mankind  is  thus  at  heart 

Not  anything  but  what  thou  art: 
And  Earth,  Sea,  Man,  are  all  in  each. 
[123] 


VOX  ECCLESI/E,  VOX  CHRISTI. 

(1849.) 

I  saw  under  the  altar  the  souls  of  them  that  were  slain  for  the  word  of 
God,  and  for  the  testimony  which  they  held;  and  they  cried  with  a  loud 
voice,  saying,  How  long,  O  Lord,  holy  and  true,  dost  Thou  not  judge  and 
avenge  our  blood  on  them  that  dwell  on  the  earth  ?  —  REV.  vi.  9,  10. 

NOT  'neath  the  altar  only, —  yet,  in  sooth, 

There  more  than  elsewhere, — is  the  cry,  "  How  long  ?  " 
The  right  sown  there  hath  still  borne  fruit  in  wrong — 

The  wrong  waxed  fourfold.     Thence,  (in  hate  of  truth) 

O'er  weapons  blessed  for  carnage,  to  fierce  youth 
From  evil  age,  the  word  hath  hissed  along: — 
"  Ye  are  the  Lord's:  go  forth,  destroy,  be  strong: 

Christ's  Church  absolves  ye  from  Christ's  law  of  ruth." 

Therefore  the  wine-cup  at  the  altar  is 

As  Christ's  own  blood  indeed,  and  as  the  blood 

Of  Christ's  elect,  at  divers  seasons  spilt 
On  the  altar-stone,  that  to  man's  church,  for  this, 
Shall  prove  a  stone  of  stumbling, — whence  it  stood 
To  be  rent  up  ere  the  true  Church  be  built. 


[124] 


DANTE  AT  VERONA. 

THIS  poem,  originally  called  Dante  in  Exile,  was  writ- 
ten as  an  introduction  to  Rossetti's  translation  of 
Dante's  Vita  Ntiova,  and  is  filled  with  allusions  to  the 
facts  of  Dante's  career  presupposing  a  considerable  fa- 
miliarity with  that  career  on  the  part  of  the  reader. 

Rossetti's  inheritance  of  Italian  sympathies,  not  com- 
monly obvious  in  his  expression  of  himself,  is  here  re- 
vealed with  striking  effect.  None  but  an  Italian  could  so 
intimately  have  rendered  the  mood  of  an  Italian  despised 
and  rejected  by  his  city,  and  sentenced  to  permanent 
exile  for  his  passionate  labours  on  her  behalf : 

Arriving  only  to  depart, 

From  court  to  court,  from  land  to  land, 
Like  flame  within  the  naked  hand 

His  body  bore  his  burning  heart. 

The  picture  of  the  great  Ghibelline,  angry  and  em- 
bittered with  his  fate,  yet  mild  with  the  girls  about  the 
fountain,  murmuring  to  them  concerning  Beatrice,  is  a 
picture  no  Englishman  could  have  drawn,  and  no  Eng- 
lishman could  so  have  depicted  the  quivering  sensitive- 
ness of  Dante's  temper  without  suggesting  effeminacy. 
In  Dante  at  Verona,  Rossetti's  subject  called  forth  the 
latent  force  and  gravity  of  his  own  nature  so  compel- 
lingly  as  to  place  this  poem  of  his  boyhood  above  most 
of  his  later  poetry  in  beauty  of  thought  and  diction  if  not 
in  regularity  of  form. 

During  what  is  called  the  "first  periods"  of  Rossetti's 
[125] 


IDante  at  Derona. 

painting,  subjects  from  Dante  held  a  prominent  place: 
Dante  Drawing  the  Angel ;  Beatrice  at  a  Marriage  Feast, 
Denying  her  Salutation  to  Dante  ;  Giotto  painting  Dante's 
Portrait;  The  Meeting  of  Dante  and  Beatrice  in  Para- 
dise; Matilda  Gathering  Flowers  (from  Purgatorio)] 
Dante's  Vision  of  Rachel  and  Leah  ;  the  early  version 
of  Dante's  Dream;  Dante  Meeting  Beatrice  in  Florence, 
and  Dante's  Amor,  all  belong  to  the  paintings  of  the 
fifties,  and  again,  during  the  last  two  years  of  Rossetti's 
life,  he  painted  replicas  of  his  Dante  pictures,  and  in  1881 
the  oil-colour  of  La  Pia  from  Canto  V.  of  the  Purgatorio. 
His  picture  of  Giotto  Painting  the  Portrait  of  Dante, 
here  reproduced,  was  intended  for  the  central  panel  of  a 
triptych.  The  doors  were  to  be  a  representation  of 
Dante  as  one  of  the  Priori  banishing  the  factious  chiefs 
of  Florence  on  one  side,  and,  on  the  other,  Dante  at 
the  court  of  Can  Grande,  mocked  by  the  Jester.  Only 
the  central  design  was  carried  out.  When  Rossetti  was 
about  twelve  years  old  the  English  artist,  Seymour 
Kirkup,  sent  to  Rossetti's  father  a  coloured  drawing 
from  the  portrait  of  Dante,  by  Giotto,  in  the  Bargello  of 
Florence,  in  the  discovery  of  which,  under  the  layers  of 
whitewash,  Mr.  Kirkup  had  taken  a  leading  part.  From 
this  drawing,  no  doubt,  sprang  Rossetti's  inspiration  for 
the  picture  painted  by  him  ten  years  later. 


[126] 


I.— PRINCIPAL  POEMS. 


DANTE  AT  VERONA. 

(With  three  Illustrations.} 

Yea,  thou  shalt  learn  how  salt  his  food  who  fares 

Upon  another's  bread, —  how  steep  his  path 
Who  treadeth  up  and  down  another's  stairs. 

(Di-o.  Com.,  Parad.,  \v\\.} 
Behold,  even  I,  even  1  am  Beatrice. 

(Div.  Com.,  Purg.,  xxxj 

OF  Florence  and  of  Beatrice 
Servant  and  singer  from  of  old, 
O'er  Dante's  heart  in  youth  had  toll'd 

The  knell  that  gave  his  Lady  peace; 
And  now  in  manhood  flew  the  dart 
Wherewith  his  City  pierced  his  heart. 

Yet  if  his  Lady's  home  above 

Was  Heaven,  on  earth  she  filled  his  soul; 

And  if  his  City  held  control 
To  cast  the  body  forth  to  rove, 

The  soul  could  soar  from  earth's  vain  throng, 

And  Heaven  and  Hell  fulfil  the  song. 

Follow  his  feet's  appointed  way; — 

But  little  light  we  find  that  clears 

The  darkness  of  the  exiled  years. 
Follow  his  spirit's  journey:  —  nay, 

What  fires  are  blent,  what  winds  are  blown 

On  paths  his  feet  may  tread  alone  ? 
[127] 


Dante  at  Derona. 

Yet  of  the  twofold  life  he  led 
In  chainless  thought  and  fettered  will 
Some  glimpses  reach  us, —  somewhat  still 

Of  the  steep  stairs  and  bitter  bread, — 
Of  the  soul's  quest  whose  stern  avow 
For  years  had  made  him  haggard  now. 

Alas!  the  Sacred  Song  whereto 

Both  heaven  and  earth  had  set  their  hand 
Not  only  at  Fame's  gate  did  stand 

Knocking  to  claim  the  passage  through, 
But  toiled  to  ope  that  heavier  door 
Which  Florence  shut  for  evermore. 

Shall  not  his  birth's  baptismal  Town 
One  last  high  presage  yet  fulfil, 
And  at  that  font  in  Florence  still 

His  forehead  take  the  laurel-crown  ? 
O  God!  or  shall  dead  souls  deny 
The  undying  soul  its  prophecy  ? 

Aye,  't  is  their  hour.     Not  yet  forgot 
The  bitter  words  he  spoke  that  day 
When  for  some  great  charge  far  away 

Her  rulers  his  acceptance  sought. 
"  And  if  I  go,  who  stays  ?  " — so  rose 
His  scorn: — "  and  if  I  stay,  who  goes  ?" 

"  Lo!  thou  art  gone  now,  and  we  stay  " 
(The  curled  lips  mutter) :  "and  no  star 
Is  from  thy  mortal  path  so  far 

As  streets  where  childhood  knew  the  way. 
To  Heaven  and  Hell  thy  feet  may  win, 
But  thine  own  house  they  come  not  in." 

[128] 


Dante  at  \Derona. 

it  the  twofold  life  he  led 
in  chainless  thought  and  fettered  will 
Some  glimpses  reach  us, —  somewhat  still 
Of  the  steep  stairs  and  bitter  bread,— 
Of  the  soul's  quest  whose  stern  avow 
For  years  had  made  him  haggard  now. 

Alas!  the  Sacred  Song  whereto 

Both  heaven  and  earth  had  set  their  hand 

Not  only  at  Fame's  gate  did  stand 
Knocking  to  claim  the  passage  through, 

But  toiled  to  ope  that  heavier  door 

Which  Florence  shut  for  evermore. 

Shall  not  his  birth's  baptismal  Town 
One  last  high  preset  VH.  fulfil 

^mm  Jhe  Meetin% 

His  forehetti  &H&ltit*&&&tJ 
O  God!  or  shaH  df-ad  souls  deny 

The  undying  **i*  H*  twtfUwe*  > 

Aye    '  U  tne.-r  Hour      Not  yet  forgot 
The  bitter  words  he  spoke  that  day 
When  for  some  great  charge  far  away 

Her  rulers  his  acceptance  sought. 
"  And  if  I  go,  who  stays  ?  " — so  rose 
His  scorn: — "  and  if  I  stay,  who  goes  ?" 

"  Lo!  thou  art  gone  now,  and  we  stay  " 
(The  curled  lips  mutter) :  "and  no  star 
Is  from  thy  mortal  path  so  far 

As  streets  where  childhood  knew  the  way. 
To  Heaven  and  Hell  thy  feet  may  win, 
But  thine  own  house  they  come  not  in." 
[128] 


Dante  at  tDerona, 

Therefore,  the  loftier  rose  the  song 
To  touch  the  secret  things  of  God, 
The  deeper  pierced  the  hate  that  trod 

On  base  men's  track  who  wrought  the  wrong; 
Till  the  soul's  effluence  came  to  be 
Its  own  exceeding  agony. 

Arriving  only  to  depart, 

From  court  to  court,  from  land  to  land, 

Like  flame  within  the  naked  hand 
His  body  bore  his  burning  heart 

That  still  on  Florence  strove  to  bring 

God's  fire  for  a  burnt  offering. 

Even  such  was  Dante's  mood,  when  now, 

Mocked  for  long  years  with  Fortune's  sport 

He  dwelt  at  yet  another  court, 
There  where  Verona's  knee  did  bow 

And  her  voice  hailed  with  all  acclaim 

Can  Grande  della  Scala's  name. 

As  that  lord's  kingly  guest  awhile 
His  life  we  follow;  through  the  days 
Which  walked  in  exile's  barren  ways, — 

The  nights  which  still  beneath  one  smile 

Heard  through  all  spheres  one  song  increase,- 
"  Even  I,  even  I  am  Beatrice." 

At  Can  La  Scala's  court,  no  doubt, 
Due  reverence  did  his  steps  attend ; 
The  ushers  on  his  path  would  bend 

At  ingoing  as  at  going  out; 
The  penmen  waited  on  his  call 
At  council-board,  the  grooms  in  hall. 

VOL.   I. — 9. 

[I29] 


IDante  at  Derona. 

And  pages  hushed  their  laughter  down, 
And  gay  squires  stilled  the  merry  stir, 
When  he  passed  up  the  dais-chamber 

With  set  brows  lordlier  than  a  frown ; 
And  tire-maids  hidden  among  these 
Drew  close  their  loosened  bodices. 

Perhaps  the  priests,  (exact  to  span 
All  God's  circumference,)  if  at  whiles 
They  found  him  wandering  in  their  aisles, 

Grudged  ghostly  greeting  to  the  man 
By  whom,  though  not  of  ghostly  guild, 
With  Heaven  and  Hell  men's  hearts  were  fill'd. 

And  the  court-poets  (he,  forsooth, 
A  whole  world's  poet  strayed  to  court!) 
Had  for  his  scorn  their  hate's  retort. 

He  'd  meet  them  flushed  with  easy  youth, 
Hot  on  their  errands.     Like  noon-flies 
They  vexed  him  in  the  ears  and  eyes. 

But  at  this  court,  peace  still  must  wrench 

Her  chaplet  from  the  teeth  of  war : 

By  day  they  held  high  watch  afar, 
At  night  they  cried  across  the  trench; 

And  still,  in  Dante's  path,  the  fierce 

Gaunt  soldiers  wrangled  o'er  their  spears. 

But  vain  seemed  all  the  strength  to  him, 
As  golden  convoys  sunk  at  sea 
Whose  wealth  might  root  out  penury: 

Because  it  was  not,  limb  with  limb, 
Knit  like  his  heart-strings  round  the  wall 
Of  Florence,  that  ill  pride  might  fall. 
[130] 


Dante  at  iDerona, 

Ami  pages  hushed  their  laughter  down, 
And  gay  squires  stilled  the  merry  stir, 
When  he  passed  up  the  dais-chamber 

With  set  brows  lordlier  than  a  frown ; 
..ads  hidden  among  these 
|>  their  loosened  bodices. 

,ps  the  priests,  (exact  to  span 
All  God's  circumference,)  if  at  whiles 
They  found  him  wandering  in  their  aisles, 
;ged  ghostly  greeting  to  the  man 
vhom,  though  not  of  ghostly  guild,    . 

wen  and  Hell  men's  hearts  were  fill'd. 

The  first  Anniversary  of  the  Death  of 

Beatrice  :  Dante  drawin    the  ael. 


uc 

' 


te  drawing  the  angel. 

•     .  * 

Pen  and  ink,  1849. 

n  tru  t 


But  at  this  court,  peace  still  must  wrench 
Her  chapkt  from  the  teeth  of  war: 

By  day  they  held  high  watch  afar, 
At  night  they  cried  across  the  trench; 
And  still,  in  Dante's  path,  the  fierce 
Gaunt  soldiers  wrangled  o'er  their  spears. 

But  vain  seemed  all  the  strength  to  him, 
As  golden  convoys  sunk  at  sea 
Whose  wealth  might  root  out  penu: 

Because  it  was  npt,  limb  with  limb, 

Knit  like  his  heart-strings  round  the  wall 
Of  Florence,  that  ill  pride  might  fall. 
[130] 


Dante  at  IDerona. 

Yet  in  the  tiltyard,  when  the  dust 

Cleared  from  the  sundered  press  of  knights 
Ere  yet  again  it  swoops  and  smites, 

He  alntost  deemed  his  longing  must 
Find  force  to  wield  that  multitude 
And  hurl  that  strength  the  way  he  would. 

How  should  he  move  them, —  fame  and  gain 
On  all  hands  calling  them  at  strife  ? 
He  still  might  find  but  his  one  life 

To  give,  by  Florence  counted  vain : 

One  heart  the  false  hearts  made  her  doubt, 
One  voice  she  heard  once  and  cast  out. 

Oh!  if  his  Florence  could  but  come, 

A  lily-sceptred  damsel  fair, 

As  her  own  Giotto  painted  her 
On  many  shields  and  gates  at  home, — 

A  lady  crowned,  at  a  soft  pace 

Riding  the  lists  round  to  the  dais: 

Till  where  Can  Grande  rules  the  lists, 
As  young  as  Truth,  as  calm  as  Force, 
She  draws  her  rein  now,  while  her  horse 

Bows  at  the  turn  of  the  white  wrists; 
And  when  each  knight  within  his  stall 
Gives  ear,  she  speaks  and  tells  them  all: 

All  the  foul  tale, —  truth  sworn  untrue 
And  falsehood's  triumph.     All  the  tale  ? 
Great  God!  and  must  she  not  prevail 

To  fire  them  ere  they  heard  it  through, — 
And  hand  achieve  ere  heart  could  rest 
That  high  adventure  of  her  quest  ? 


Dante  at  IDerona. 

How  would  his  Florence  lead  them  forth, 

Her  bridle  ringing  as  she  went; 

And  at  the  last  within  her  tent, 
'Neath  golden  lilies  worship-wort'n. 

How  queenly  would  she  bend  the  while 

And  thank  the  victors  with  her  smile! 

Also  her  lips  should  turn  his  way 
And  murmur:  "  O  thou  tried  and  true, 
With  whom  I  wept  the  long  years  through! 

What  shall  it  profit  if  I  say, 
Thee  I  remember  ?    Nay,  through  thee 
All  ages  shall  remember  me." 

Peace,  Dante,  peace!     The  task  is  long, 
The  time  wears  short  to  compass  it. 
Within  thine  heart  such  hopes  may  flit 

And  find  a  voice  in  deathless  song: 
But  lo!  as  children  of  man's  earth, 
Those  hopes  are  dead  before  their  birth. 

Fame  tells  us  that  Verona's  court 
Was  a  fair  place.     The  feet  might  still 
Wander  for  ever  at  their  will 

In  many  ways  of  sweet  resort; 
And  still  in  many  a  heart  around 
The  Poet's  name  due  honour  found. 

Watch  we  his  steps.     He  comes  upon 
The  women  at  their  palm-playing. 
The  conduits  round  the  gardens  sing 

And  meet  in  scoops  of  milk-white  stone, 
Where  wearied  damsels  rest  and  hold 
Their  hands  in  the  wet  spurt  of  gold. 
[132] 


2>ante  at  \Derona. 

One  of  whom,  knowing  well  that  he, 

By  some  found  stern,  was  mild  with  them, 
Would  run  and  pluck  his  garment's  hem, 

Saying,  "  Messer  Dante,  pardon  me," — 
Praying  that  they  might  hear  the  song 
Which  first  of  all  he  made,  when  young. 

"Donne  che  avete"1     .     .     .     Thereunto 
Thus  would  he  murmur,  having  first 
Drawn  near  the  fountain,  while  she  nurs'd 

His  hand  against  her  side:  a  few 
Sweet  words,  and  scarcely  those,  half  said : 
Then  turned,  and  changed,  and  bowed  his  head. 

For  then  the  voice  said  in  his  heart, 

"  Even  1,  even  I  am  Beatrice;  " 

And  his  whole  life  would  yearn  to  cease: 
Till  having  reached  his  room,  apart 

Beyond  vast  lengths  of  palace-floor, 

He  drew  the  arras  round  his  door. 

At  such  times,  Dante,  thou  hast  set 

Thy  forehead  to  the  painted  pane 

Full  oft,  I  know;  and  if  the  rain 
Smote  it  outside,  her  fingers  met 

Thy  brow;  and  if  the  sun  fell  there, 

Her  breath  was  on  thy  face  and  hair. 

Then,  weeping,  I  think  certainly 

Thou  hast  beheld,  past  sight  of  eyne, — 

Within  another  room  of  thine 
Where  now  thy  body  may  not  be 

But  where  in  thought  thou  still  remain'st,— 

A  window  often  wept  against: 


2>ante  at  IDerona. 

The  window  thou,  a  youth,  hast  sought, 
Flushed  in  the  limpid  eventime, 
Ending  with  daylight  the  day's  rhyme 

Of  her;  where  often  whiles  her  thought 
Held  thee — the  lamp  untrimmed  to  write — 
In  joy  through  the  blue  lapse  of  night. 

At  Can  La  Scala's  court,  no  doubt, 
Guests  seldom  wept.     It  was  brave  sport, 
No  doubt,  at  Can  La  Scala's  court, 

Within  the  palace  and  without; 
Where  music,  set  to  madrigals, 
Loitered  all  day  through  groves  and  halls. 

Because  Can  Grande  of  his  life 
Had  not  had  six-and-twenty  years 
As  yet.     And  when  the  chroniclers 

Tell  you  of  that  Vicenza  strife 

And  of  strifes  elsewhere, — you  must  not 
Conceive  for  church-sooth  he  had  got 

Just  nothing  in  his  wits  but  war: 

Though  doubtless  't  was  the  young  man's  joy 
(Grown  with  his  growth  from  a  mere  boy,) 

To  mark  his  "Viva  Cane!  "  scare 
The  foe's  shut  front,  till  it  would  reel 
All  blind  with  shaken  points  of  steel. 

But  there  were  places — held  too  sweet 

For  eyes  that  had  not  the  due  veil 

Of  lashes  and  clear  lids — as  well 
In  favour  as  his  saddle-seat: 

Breath  of  low  speech  he  scorned  not  there 

Nor  light  cool  fingers  in  his  hair. 
[134] 


Dante  at  IDerona, 

Yet  if  the  child  whom  the  sire's  plan 
Made  free  of  a  deep  treasure-chest 
Scoffed  it  with  ill-conditioned  jest, — 

We  may  be  sure  too  that  the  man 
Was  not  mere  thews,  nor  all  content 
With  lewdness  swathed  in  sentiment. 

So  you  may  read  and  marvel  not 

That  such  a  man  as  Dante — one 

Who,  while  Can  Grande's  deeds  were  done, 
Had  drawn  his  robe  round  him  and  thought — 

Now  at  the  same  guest-table  far'd 

Where  keen  Uguccio  wiped  his  beard.2 

Through  leaves  and  trellis-work  the  sun 
Left  the  wine  cool  within  the  glass, — 
They  feasting  where  no  sun  could  pass: 

And  when  the  women,  all  as  one, 
Rose  up  with  brightened  cheeks  to  go, 
It  was  a  comely  thing,  we  know. 

But  Dante  recked  not  of  the  wine; 

Whether  the  women  stayed  or  went, 

His  visage  held  one  stern  intent: 
And  when  the  music  had  its  sign 

To  breathe  upon  them  for  more  ease, 

Sometimes  he  turned  and  bade  it  cease. 

And  as  he  spared  not  to  rebuke 

The  mirth,  so  oft  in  council  he 

To  bitter  truth  bore  testimony: 
And  when  the  crafty  balance  shook 

Well  poised  to  make  the  wrong  prevail, 

Then  Dante's  hand  would  turn  the  scale. 
[1351 


SDante  at  IDerona. 

And  if  some  envoy  from  afar 
Sailed  to  Verona's  sovereign  port 
For  aid  or  peace,  and  all  the  court 

Fawned  on  its  lord,  "the  Mars  of  war, 
Sole  arbiter  of  life  and  death," — 
Be  sure  that  Dante  saved  his  breath. 

And  Can  La  Scala  marked  askance 
These  things,  accepting  them  for  shame 
And  scorn,  till  Dante's  guestship  came 

To  be  a  peevish  sufferance : 

His  host  sought  ways  to  make  his  days 
Hateful;  and  such  have  many  ways. 

There  was  a  Jester,  a  foul  lout 

Whom  the  court  loved  for  graceless  arts; 

Sworn  scholiast  of  the  bestial  parts 
Of  speech;  a  ribald  mouth  to  shout 

In  Folly's  horny  tympanum 

Such  things  as  make  the  wise  man  dumb. 

Much  loved,  him  Dante  loathed.     And  so, 

One  day  when  Dante  felt  perplex'd 

If  any  day  that  could  come  next 
Were  worth  the  waiting  for  or  no, 

And  mute  he  sat  amid  their  din, — 

Can  Grande  called  the  Jester  in. 

Rank  words,  with  such,  are  wit's  best  wealth. 
Lords  mouthed  approval;  ladies  kept 
Twittering  with  clustered  heads,  except 

Some  few  that  took  their  trains  by  stealth 
And  went.     Can  Grande  shook  his  hair 
And  smote  his  thighs  and  laughed  i'  the  air. 
[136] 


Dante  at  IDerona. 

And  if  some  envoy  from  afar 
Sailed  to  Verona's  sovereign  port 
For  aid  or  peace,  and  all  the  court 

Fawned  on  its  lord,  "the  Mars  of  war, 
Sole  arbiter  of  life  and  death. 
Be  sure  that  Dante  saved  his  bre. 

And  Can  La  Scala  marked  askance 
These  things,  accepting  them  for  shame 
And  scorn,  till  Dante's  guestship  came 

To  be  a  peevish  sufferance: 
His  host  sought  ways  to  make  his  days 
Hateful:  and  such  have  many  ways. 

Ther 


Whom  t! 
Sworn  sch- 

to  shout     . 
In  ;  pan urn 

Much  loved,  him  Dmnte  loathr         -'  -i  so, 

One  day  when  Dan      v<i  p  :;  tx  d 

If  any  day  that  could  come  next 
Were  worth  the  waiting  for  or.no, 

And  mute  he  sat  amid  their  din, — 

Can  Grande  called  the  Jester  in. 

Rank  words,  with  such,  are  wit's  best  wealth. 
Lords  mouthed  approval;  ladies  kept 
Twittering  with  clustered  heads,  except 

Some  few  that  took  their  trains  by  stealth 
And  went.  Can  Grande  shook  his  hair 
And  smote  his  thighs  and  laughed  F  the  air. 


2>ante  at  IDerona. 

Then,  facing  on  his  guest,  he  cried, — 

"Say,  Messer  Dante,  how  it  is 

I  get  out  of  a  clown  like  this 
More  than  your  wisdom  can  provide." 

And  Dante:  "  T  is  man's  ancient  whim 

That  still  his  like  seems  good  to  him." 

Also  a  tale  is  told,  how  once, 

At  clearing  tables  after  meat, 

Piled  for  a  jest  at  Dante's  feet 
Were  found  the  dinner's  well-picked  bones; 

So  laid,  to  please  the  banquet's  lord, 

By  one  who  crouched  beneath  the  board. 

Then  smiled  Can  Grande  to  the  rest: 
"  Our  Dante's  tuneful  mouth  indeed 
Lacks  not  the  gift  on  flesh  to  feed!  " 

"Fair  host  of  mine,"  replied  the  guest, 
"  So  many  bones  you  'd  not  descry 
If  so  it  chanced  the  dog  were  I."3 

But  wherefore  should  we  turn  the  grout 
In  a  drained  cup,  or  be  at  strife 
From  the  worn  garment  of  a  life 

To  rip  the  twisted  ravel  out  ? 
Good  needs  expounding;   but  of  ill 
Each  hath  enough  to  guess  his  fill. 

They  named  him  Justicer-at-Law: 
Each  month  to  bear  the  tale  in  mind 
Of  hues  a  wench  might  wear  unfin'd 

And  of  the  load  an  ox  might  draw; 
To  cavil  in  the  weight  of  bread 
And  to  see  purse-thieves  gibbeted. 
[137] 


Dante  at  Derona. 

And  when  his  spirit  wove  the  spell 
(From  under  even  to  over-noon 
In  converse  with  itself  alone,) 

As  high  as  Heaven,  as  low  as  Hell, — 
He  would  be  summoned  and  must  go: 
For  had  not  Gian  stabbed  Giacomo  ? 

Therefore  the  bread  he  had  to  eat 

Seemed  brackish,  less  like  corn  than  tares; 

And  the  rush-strown,  accustomed  stairs 
Each  day  were  steeper  to  his  feet; 

And  when  the  night-vigil  was  done, 

His  brows  would  ache  to  feel  the  sun. 

Nevertheless,  when  from  his  kin 
There  came  the  tidings  how  at  last 
In  Florence  a  decree  was  pass'd 

Whereby  all  banish'd  folk  might  win 
Free  pardon,  so  a  fine  were  paid 
And  act  of  public  penance  made, — 

This  Dante  writ  in  answer  thus, 

Words  such  as  these:  " That  clearly  they 
In  Florence  must  not  have  to  say, — 

The  man  abode  aloof  from  us 

Nigh  fifteen  years,  yet  lastly  skulk'd 
Hither  to  candleshrift  and  mulct. 

"That  he  was  one  the  Heavens  forbid 
To  traffic  in  God's  justice  sold 
By  market-weight  of  earthly  gold, 

Or  to  bow  down  over  the  lid 
Of  steaming  censers,  and  so  be 
Made  clean  of  manhood's  obloquy. 
[138] 


Dante  at  IDerona, 

"That  since  no  gate  led,  by  God's  will, 
To  Florence,  but  the  one  whereat 
The  priests  and  money-changers  sat, 

He  still  would  wander;  for  that  still, 
Even  through  the  body's  prison-bars, 
His  soul  possessed  the  sun  and  stars." 

Such  were  his  words.     It  is  indeed 
For  ever  well  our  singers  should 
Utter  good  words  and  know  them  good 

Not  through  song  only ;  with  close  heed 
Lest,  having  spent  for  the  work's  sake 
Six  days,  the  man  be  left  to  make. 

Months  o'er  Verona,  till  the  feast 
Was  come  for  Florence  the  Free  Town: 
And  at  the  shrine  of  Baptist  John 

The  exiles,  girt  with  many  a  priest 
And  carrying  candles  as  they  went, 
Were  held  to  mercy  of  the  saint. 

On  the  high  seats  in  sober  state, — 
Gold  neck-chains  range  o'er  range  below 
Gold  screen-work  where  the  lilies  grow, — 

The  heads  of  the  Republic  sate, 
Marking  the  humbled  face  go  by 
Each  one  of  his  house-enemy. 

And  as  each  prescript  rose  and  stood 
From  kneeling  in  the  ashen  dust 
On  the  shrine-steps,  some  magnate  thrust 

A  beard  into  the  velvet  hood 
Of  his  front  colleague's  gown,  to  see 
The  cinders  stuck  in  his  bare  knee. 
[139] 


Dante  at  IDerona. 

Tosinghi  passed,  Manelli  passed, 
Rinucci  passed,  each  in  his  place; 
But  not  an  Alighieri's  face 

Went  by  that  day  from  first  to  last 
In  the  Republic's  triumph;  nor 
A  foot  came  home  to  Dante's  door. 

(RESPUBLICA — a  public  thing: 
A  shameful,  shameless  prostitute, 
Whose  lust  with  one  lord  may  not  suit, 

So  takes  by  turn  its  revelling 
A  night  with  each,  till  each  at  morn 
Is  stripped  and  beaten  forth  forlorn, 

And  leaves  her,  cursing  her.     If  she, 

Indeed,  have  not  some  spice-draught,  hid 
In  scent  under  a  silver  lid, 

To  drench  his  open  throat  with — he 
Once  hard  asleep;   and  thrust  him  not 
At  dawn  beneath  the  stairs  to  rot. 

Such  this  Republic! — not  the  Maid 

He  yearned  for;  she  who  yet  should  stand 
With  Heaven's  accepted  hand  in  hand, 

Invulnerable  and  unbetray'd: 
To  whom,  even  as  to  God  should  be 
Obeisance  one  with  Liberty.) 

Years  filled  out  their  twelve  moons,  and  ceased 

One  in  another;  and  alway 

There  were  the  whole  twelve  hours  each  day 
And  each  night  as  the  years  increased; 

And  rising  moon  and  setting  sun 

Beheld  that  Dante's  work  was  done. 
[140] 


Dante  at  IDerona. 

What  of  his  work  for  Florence  ?    Well 
It  was,  he  knew,  and  well  must  be. 
Yet  evermore  her  hate's  decree 

Dwelt  in  his  thought  intolerable: — 
His  body  to  be  burned,4 —  his  soul 
To  beat  its  wings  at  hope's  vain  goal. 

What  of  his  work  for  Beatrice  ? 

Now  well-nigh  was  the  third  song  writ, — 

The  stars  a  third  time  sealing  it 
With  sudden  music  of  pure  peace: 

For  echoing  thrice  the  threefold  song, 

The  unnumbered  stars  the  tone  prolong.5 

Each  hour,  as  then  the  Vision  pass'd, 

He  heard  the  utter  harmony 

Of  the  nine  trembling  spheres,  till  she 
Bowed  her  eyes  towards  him  in  the  last, 

So  that  all  ended  with  her  eyes, 

Hell,  Purgatory,  Paradise. 

"It  is  my  trust,  as  the  years  fall, 
To  write  more  worthily  of  her 
Who  now,  being  made  God's  minister, 

Looks  on  His  visage  and  knows  all." 
Such  was  the  hope  that  love  dar'd  blend 
With  griefs  slow  fires,  to  make  an  end 

Of  the  "New  Life,"  his  youth's  dear  book: 
Adding  thereunto:  "In  such  trust 
I  labour,  and  believe  I  must 

Accomplish  this  which  my  soul  took 
In  charge,  if  God,  my  Lord  and  hers, 
Leave  my  life  with  me  a  few  years." 
[141] 


Dante  at  IDerona. 

The  trust  which  he  had  borne  in  youth 

Was  all  at  length  accomplished.     He 

At  length  had  written  worthily — 
Yea  even  of  her;  no  rhymes  uncouth 

Twixt  tongue  and  tongue;  but  by  God's  aid 

The  first  words  Italy  had  said. 

Ah !  haply  now  the  heavenly  guide 

Was  not  the  last  form  seen  by  him: 

But  there  that  Beatrice  stood  slim 
And  bowed  in  passing  at  his  side, 

For  whom  in  youth  his  heart  made  moan 

Then  when  the  city  sat  alone.6 

Clearly  herself:  the  same  whom  he 
Met,  not  past  girlhood,  in  the  street, 
Low-bosomed  and  with  hidden  feet; 

And  then  as  woman  perfectly, 
In  years  that  followed,  many  an  once, — 
And  now  at  last  among  the  suns 

In  that  high  vision.     But  indeed 

It  may  be  memory  might  recall 

Last  to  him  then  the  first  of  all, — 
The  child  his  boyhood  bore  in  heed 

Nine  years.    At  length  the  voice  brought  peace,- 

"Even  I,  even  I  am  Beatrice." 

All  this,  being  there,  we  had  not  seen. 
Seen  only  was  the  shadow  wrought 
On  the  strong  features  bound  in  thought; 

The  vagueness  gaining  gait  and  mien; 
The  white  streaks  gathering  clear  to  view 
In  the  burnt  beard  the  women  knew. 
[142] 


Dante  at  IDerona. 

For  a  tale  tells  that  on  his  track, 
As  through  Verona's  streets  he  went, 
This  saying  certain  women  sent: — 

"  Lo,  he  that  strolls  to  Hell  and  back 
At  will!     Behold  him,  how  Hell's  reek 
Has  crisped  his  beard  and  singed  his  cheek." 

"Whereat"  (Boccaccio's  words)  "he  smil'd 
For  pride  in  fame."     It  might  be  so: 
Nevertheless  we  cannot  know 

If  haply  he  were  not  beguil'd 
To  bitterer  mirth,  who  scarce  could  tell 
If  he  indeed  were  back  from  Hell. 

So  the  day  came,  after  a  space, 
When  Dante  felt  assured  that  there 
The  sunshine  must  lie  sicklier 

Even  than  in  any  other  place, 

Save  only  Florence.     When  that  day 
Had  come,  he  rose  and  went  his  way. 

He  went  and  turned  not.     From  his  shoes 
It  may  be  that  he  shook  the  dust, 
As  every  righteous  dealer  must 

Once  and  again  ere  life  can  close: 
And  unaccomplished  destiny 
Struck  cold  his  forehead,  it  may  be. 

No  book  keeps  record  how  the  Prince 
Sunned  himself  out  of  Dante's  reach, 
Nor  how  the  Jester  stank  in  speech: 

While  courtiers,  used  to  cringe  and  wince, 
Poets  and  harlots,  all  the  throng, 
Let  loose  their  scandal  and  their  song. 


Bante  at  Derona* 

No  book  keeps  record  if  the  seat 
Which  Dante  held  at  his  host's  board 
Were  sat  in  next  by  clerk  or  lord, — 

If  leman  lolled  with  dainty  feet 
At  ease,  or  hostage  brooded  there, 
Or  priest  lacked  silence  for  his  prayer. 

Eat  and  wash  hands,  Can  Grande; — scarce 
We  know  their  deeds  now:  hands  which  fed 
Our  Dante  with  that  bitter  bread; 

And  thou  the  watch-dog  of  those  stairs 
Which,  of  all  paths  his  feet  knew  well, 
Were  steeper  found  than  Heaven  or  Hell. 


[144] 


Dante  at  IDerona, 

No  book  keeps  record  if  the  seat 
Which  Dante  held  at  his  host's  board 
Were  sat  in  next  by  clerk  or  lord, — 

If  leman  lolled  with  dain: 
At  ease,  or  hostage  bro 
Or  priest  lacked  silence  for  hi 

Eat  and  wash  hands,  Can  Grande; — sc 
We  know  their  deeds  now:  hands  whu 
Our  Dante  with  that  bitter  bread; 

And  thou  the  watch-dog  of  those  stairs 
Which,  of  all  paths  his  feet  knew  well, 
Were  steeper, found  than  Heaven  or  Hell. 

Dante's  Dream. 

From  the  oil  colour  of  187 1 . 


[M4] 


THE  MIRROR. 

SHE  knew  it  not: — most  perfect  pain 
To  learn :  this  too  she  knew  not.     Strife 
For  me,  calm  hers,  as  from  the  first. 
Twas  but  another  bubble  burst 
Upon  the  curdling  draught  of  life, — 
My  silent  patience  mine  again. 

As  who,  of  forms  that  crowd  unknown 
Within  a  distant  mirror's  shade, 
Deems  such  an  one  himself,  and  makes 
Some  sign;  but  when  the  image  shakes 
No  whit,  he  finds  his  thought  betray'd, 
And  must  seek  elsewhere  for  his  own. 


VOL.  I.— 10. 


A  LAST  CONFESSION. 

A  CRITIC  of  The  Catholic  World,  commenting  upon 
the  fact  that  A  Last  Confession  had  been  com- 
pared to  Browning's  narrative  poems  of  Italian  life,  says: 
"  It  has,  indeed,  all  of  Browning's  strength,  but  none  of 
his  dense  English  misconception  of  Italian  character." 
Mr.  Sharp  calls  it  "Rossetti's  dramatic  chef-d'oeuvre/' 
and  adds:  "I  do  not  know  in  exactly  what  estimation 
the  author  held  it  himself,  but  I  remember  his  telling  me 
that  about  the  best  review  he  had  ever  had  '  spoke  with 
justice '  of  his  three  chief  poems  being  A  Last  Confes- 
sion, Dante  at  Verona,  and  The  Burden  of  Nineveh." 
When  the  poem  was  put  in  shape  for  the  volume  of 
1870  Rossetti  was  much  exercised  over  the  criticisms 
made  by  his  brother  upon  the  little  Italian  song  intro- 
duced into  the  poem.  Mr.  William  Rossetti  considered 
some  of  the  lines  lax  in  metre,  according  to  Italian 
prosody,  but  Rossetti  maintained  that  the  song  was 
meant  to  be  in  "a  very  irregular  antiquated  sort  of 
Italian  "  and  contained  no  worse  slips  than  occur  con- 
tinually among  the  earliest  poets.  A  Last  Confession 
was  the  first  of  Rossetti's  poems  to  be  translated  into 
Italian,  possibly  on  account  of  the  peculiarly  Italian  set- 
ting of  the  narrative  which  refers  to  the  revolutionary 
movement  in  Italy  before  national  unity  was  attained. 


[146] 


A  LAST  CONFESSION. 

(Regno  Lombardo-Veneio,  1848.) 

1850. 
.....•• 

OUR  Lombard  country-girls  along  the  coast 
Wear  daggers  in  their  garters :  for  they  know 
That  they  might  hate  another  girl  to  death 
Or  meet  a  German  lover.     Such  a  knife 
I  bought  her,  with  a  hilt  of  horn  and  pearl. 

Father,  you  cannot  know  of  all  my  thoughts 
That  day  in  going  to  meet  her,  — that  last  day 
For  the  last  time,  she  said; — of  all  the  love 
And  all  the  hopeless  hope  that  she  might  change 
And  go  back  with  me.     Ah!  and  everywhere, 
At  places  we  both  knew  along  the  road, 
Some  fresh  shape  of  herself  as  once  she  was 
Grew  present  at  my  side;  until  it  seemed — 
So  close  they  gathered  round  me  —  they  would  all 
Be  with  me  when  I  reached  the  spot  at  last, 
To  plead  my  cause  with  her  against  herself 
So  changed.     O  Father,  if  you  knew  all  this 
You  cannot  know,  then  you  would  know  too,  Father. 
And  only  then,  if  God  can  pardon  me. 
What  can  be  told  I  '11  tell,  if  you  will  hear. 

I  passed  a  village-fair  upon  my  road, 
And  thought,  being  empty-handed,  I  would  take 


B  Xast  Confession, 

Some  little  present:  such  might  prove,  I  said, 
Either  a  pledge  between  us,  or  (God  help  me!) 
A  parting  gift.     And  there  it  was  I  bought 
The  knife  I  spoke  of,  such  as  women  wear. 

That  day,  some  three  hours  afterwards,  I  found 
For  certain,  it  must  be  a  parting  gift. 
And,  standing  silent  now  at  last,  I  looked 
Into  her  scornful  face;  and  heard  the  sea 
Still  trying  hard  to  din  into  my  ears 
Some   speech   it  knew   which   still   might   change   her 

heart, 

If  only  it  could  make  me  understand. 
One  moment  thus.     Another,  and  her  face 
Seemed  further  off  than  the  last  line  of  sea, 
So  that  I  thought,  if  now  she  were  to  speak 
I  could  not  hear  her.     Then  again  I  knew 
All,  as  we  stood  together  on  the  sand 
At  Iglio,  in  the  first  thin  shade  o'  the  hills. 

"  Take  it,"  I  said,  and  held  it  out  to  her, 
While  the  hilt  glanced  within  my  trembling  hold; 
"  Take  it  and  keep  it  for  my  sake,"  I  said. 
Her  neck  unbent  not,  neither  did  her  eyes 
Move,  nor  her  foot  left  beating  of  the  sand ; 
Only  she  put  it  by  from  her  and  laughed. 

Father,  you  hear  my  speech  and  not  her  laugh; 
But  God  heard  that.     Will  God  remember  all  ? 

It  was  another  laugh  than  the  sweet  sound 
Which  rose  from  her  sweet  childish  heart,  that  day 
Eleven  years  before,  when  first  I  found  her 
Alone  upon  the  hill-side;  and  her  curls 
Shook  down  in  the  warm  grass  as  she  looked  up 

[148] 


H  Xa0t  Confession. 

Out  of  her  curls  in  my  eyes  bent  to  hers. 

She  might  have  served  a  painter  to  pourtray 

That  heavenly  child  which  in  the  latter  days 

Shall  walk  between  the  lion  and  the  lamb. 

1  had  been  for  nights  in  hiding,  worn  and  sick 

And  hardly  fed;  and  so  her  words  at  first 

Seemed  fitful  like  the  talking  of  the  trees 

And  voices  in  the  air  that  knew  my  name. 

And  I  remember  that  I  sat  me  down 

Upon  the  slope  with  her,  and  thought  the  world 

Must  be  all  over  or  had  never  been, 

We  seemed  there  so  alone.     And  soon  she  told  me 

Her  parents  both  were  gone  away  from  her. 

I  thought  perhaps  she  meant  that  they  had  died; 

But  when  I  asked  her  this,  she  looked  again 

Into  my  face  and  said  that  yestereve 

They  kissed  her  long,  and  wept  and  made  her  weep, 

And  gave  her  all  the  bread  they  had  with  them, 

And  then  had  gone  together  up  the  hill 

Where  we  were  sitting  now,  and  had  walked  on 

Into  the  great  red  light;   "and  so,"  she  said, 

"  I  have  come  up  here  too;  and  when  this  evening 

They  step  out  of  the  light  as  they  stepped  in, 

I  shall  be  here  to  kiss  them."     And  she  laughed. 

Then  I  bethought  me  suddenly  of  the  famine; 
And  how  the  church-steps  throughout  all  the  town, 
When  last  I  had  been  there  a  month  ago, 
Swarmed  with  starved  folk;  and  how  the  bread  was 

weighed 

By  Austrians  armed;  and  women  that  I  knew 
For  wives  and  mothers  walked  the  public  street, 
Saying  aloud  that  if  their  husbands  feared 
To  snatch  the  children's  food,  themselves  would  stay 


a  last  Confession. 

Till  they  had  earned  it  there.     So  then  this  child 

Was  piteous  to  me;  for  all  told  me  then 

Her  parents  must  have  left  her  to  God's  chance, 

To  man's  or  to  the  Church's  charity, 

Because  of  the  great  famine,  rather  than 

To  watch  her  growing  thin  between  their  knees. 

With  that,  God  took  my  mother's  voice  and  spoke, 

And  sights  and  sounds  came  back  and  things  long  since, 

And  all  my  childhood  found  me  on  the  hills; 

And  so  I  took  her  with  me. 

I  was  young, 

Scarce  man  then,  Father:  but  the  cause  which  gave 
The  wounds  I  die  of  now  had  brought  me  then 
Some  wounds  already;  and  I  lived  alone, 
As  any  hiding  hunted  man  must  live. 
It  was  no  easy  thing  to  keep  a  child 
In  safety ;  for  herself  it  was  not  safe, 
And  doubled  my  own  danger:  but  I  knew 
That  God  would  help  me. 

Yet  a  little  while 

Pardon  me,  Father,  if  I  pause.     I  think 
I  have  been  speaking  to  you  of  some  matters 
There  was  no  need  to  speak  of,  have  I  not  ? 
You  do  not  know  how  clearly  those  things  stood 
Within  my  mind,  which  I  have  spoken  of, 
Nor  how  they  strove  for  utterance.     Life  all  past 
Is  like  the  sky  when  the  sun  sets  in  it, 

(Clearest  where  furthest  off. 
I  told  you  how 

She  scorned  my  parting  gift  and  laughed.     And  yet 
A  woman's  laugh  's  another  thing  sometimes: 
I  think  they  laugh  in  heaven.     I  know  last  night 
I  dreamed  I  saw  into  the  garden  of  God, 
Where  women  walked  whose  painted  images 

[150] 


a  Xa0t  Confession. 

I  have  seen  with  candles  round  them  in  the  church. 

They  bent  this  way  and  that,  one  to  another, 

Playing:  and  over  the  long  golden  hair 

Of  each  there  floated  like  a  ring  of  fire 

Which  when  she  stooped  stooped  with  her,  and  when 

she  rose 

Rose  with  her.     Then  a  breeze  flew  in  among  them, 
As  if  a  window  had  been  opened  in  heaven 
For  God  to  give  His  blessing  from,  before 
This  world  of  ours  should  set;  (for  in  my  dream 
I  thought  our  world  was  setting,  and  the  sun 
Flared,  a  spent  taper;)  and  beneath  that  gust 
The  rings  of  light  quivered  like  forest-leaves. 
Then  all  the  blessed  maidens  who  were  there 
Stood  up  together,  as  it  were  a  voice 
That  called  them ;  and  they  threw  their  tresses  back, 
And  smote  their  palms,  and  all  laughed  up  at  once, 
For  the  strong  heavenly  joy  they  had  in  them 
To  hear  God  bless  the  world.     Wherewith  I  woke: 
And  looking  round,  I  saw  as  usual 
That  she  was  standing  there  with  her  long  locks 
Pressed  to  her  side;  and  her  laugh  ended  theirs. 

For  always  when  I  see  her  now,  she  laughs. 
And  yet  her  childish  laughter  haunts  me  too, 
The  life  of  this  dead  terror;  as  in  days 
When  she,  a  child,  dwelt  with  me.     I  must  tell 
Something  of  those  days  yet  before  the  end. 

I  brought  her  from  the  city  —  one  such  day 
When  she  was  still  a  merry  loving  child, — 
The  earliest  gift  I  mind  my  giving  her; 
A  little  image  of  a  flying  Love 

[ISO 


a  Xaet  Confession. 

Made  of  our  coloured  glass-ware,  in  his  hands 
A  dart  of  gilded  metal  and  a  torch. 
And  him  she  kissed  and  me,  and  fain  would  know 
Why  were  his  poor  eyes  blindfold,  why  the  wings 
And  why  the  arrow.     What  I  knew  I  told 
Of  Venus  and  of  Cupid, — strange  old  tales. 
And  when  she  heard  that  he  could  rule  the  loves 
Of  men  and  women,  still  she  shook  her  head 
And  wondered;  and,  "Nay,  nay,"  she  murmured  still, 
"  So  strong,  and  he  a  younger  child  than  I! " 
And  then  she  'd  have  me  fix  him  on  the  wall 
Fronting  her  little  bed;  and  then  again 
She  needs  must  fix  him  there  herself,  because 
I  gave  him  to  her  and  she  loved  him  so, 
And  he  should  make  her  love  me  better  yet, 
If  women  loved  the  more,  the  more  they  grew. 
But  the  fit  place  upon  the  wall  was  high 
For  her,  and  so  I  held  her  in  my  arms: 
And  each  time  that  the  heavy  pruning-hook 
I  gave  her  for  a  hammer  slipped  away 
As  it  would  often,  still  she  laughed  and  laughed 
And  kissed  and  kissed  me.     But  amid  her  mirth, 
Just  as  she  hung  the  image  on  the  nail, 
It  slipped  and  all  its  fragments  strewed  the  ground  : 
And  as  it  fell  she  screamed,  for  in  her  hand 
The  dart  had  entered  deeply  and  drawn  blood. 
And  so  her  laughter  turned  to  tears:  and  "Oh  !  " 
I  said,  the  while  I  bandaged  the  small  hand, — 
"  That  I  should  be  the  first  to  make  you  bleed, 
Who  love  and  love  and  love  you!  " — kissing  still 
The  fingers  till  I  got  her  safe  to  bed. 
And  still  she  sobbed, — "not  for  the  pain  at  all," 
She  said,  "  but  for  the  Love,  the  poor  good  Love 
You  gave  me."     So  she  cried  herself  to  sleep. 

[152] 


a  last  Confession. 

Another  later  thing  comes  back  to  me. 
'T  was  in  those  hardest  foulest  days  of  all, 
When  still  from  his  shut  palace,  sitting  clean 
Above  the  splash  of  blood,  old  Metternich 
(May  his  soul  die,  and  never-dying  worms 
Feast  on  its  pain  for  ever!)  used  to  thin 
His  year's  doomed  hundreds  daintily,  each  month 
Thirties  and  fifties.     This  time,  as  I  think, 
Was  when  his  thrift  forbad  the  poor  to  take 
That  evil  brackish  salt  which  the  dry  rocks 
Keep  all  through  winter  when  the  sea  draws  in. 
The  first  I  heard  of  it  was  a  chance  shot 
In  the  street  here  and  there,  and  on  the  stones 
A  stumbling  clatter  as  of  horse  hemmed  round. 
Then,  when  she  saw  me  hurry  out  of  doors, 
My  gun  slung  at  my  shoulder  and  my  knife 
Stuck  in  my  girdle,  she  smoothed  down  my  hair 
And  laughed  to  see  me  look  so  brave,  and  leaped 
Up  to  my  neck  and  kissed  me.     She  was  still 
A  child;  and  yet  that  kiss  was  on  my  lips 
So  hot  all  day  where  the  smoke  shut  us  in. 

For  now,  being  always  with  her,  the  first  love 
1  had — the  father's,  brother's  love  —  was  changed, 
I  think,  in  somewise;  like  a  holy  thought 
Which  is  a  prayer  before  one  knows  of  it. 
The  first  time  I  perceived  this,  I  remember, 
Was  once  when  after  hunting  I  came  home 
Weary,  and  she  brought  food  and  fruit  for  me, 
And  sat  down  at  my  feet  upon  the  floor 
Leaning  against  my  side.     But  when  I  felt 
Her  sweet  head  reach  from  that  low  seat  of  hers 
So  high  as  to  be  laid  upon  my  heart, 
1  turned  and  looked  upon  my  darling  there 


a  Xast  Confession. 

And  marked  for  the  first  time  how  tall  she  was ; 

And  my  heart  beat  with  so  much  violence 

Under  her  cheek,  I  thought  she  could  not  choose 

But  wonder  at  it  soon  and  ask  me  why; 

And  so  I  bade  her  rise  and  eat  with  me. 

And  when,  remembering  all  and  counting  back 

The  time,  I  made  out  fourteen  years  for  her 

And  told  her  so,  she  gazed  at  me  with  eyes 

As  of  the  sky  and  sea  on  a  grey  day, 

And  drew  her  long  hands  through  her  hair,  and  asked 

me 

If  she  was  not  a  woman;  and  then  laughed: 
And  as  she  stooped  in  laughing,  I  could  see 
Beneath  the  growing  throat  the  breasts  half-globed 
Like  folded  lilies  deepset  in  the  stream. 

Yes,  let  me  think  of  her  as  then;  for  so 
Her  image,  Father,  is  not  like  the  sights 
Which  come  when  you  are  gone.     She  had  a  mouth 
Made  to  bring  death  to  life, — the  underlip 
Sucked  in,  as  if  it  strove  to  kiss  itself. 
Her  face  was  pearly  pale,  as  when  one  stoops 
Over  wan  water;  and  the  dark  crisped  hair 
And  the  hair's  shadow  made  it  paler  still: — 
Deep-serried  locks,  the  dimness  of  the  cloud 
Where  the  moon's  gaze  is  set  in  eddying  gloom. 
Her  body  bore  her  neck  as  the  tree's  stem 
Bears  the  top  branch;  and  as  the  branch  sustains 
The  flower  of  the  year's  pride,  her  high  neck  bore 
That  face  made  wonderful  with  night  and  day. 
Her  voice  was  swift,  yet  ever  the  last  words 
Fell  lingeringly;  and  rounded  finger-tips 
She  had,  that  clung  a  little  where  they  touched 
And  then  were  gone  o'  the  instant.     Her  great  eyes, 


a  %ast  Confession. 

That  sometimes  turned  half  dizzily  beneath 

The  passionate  lids,  as  faint,  when  she  would  speak, 

Had  also  in  them  hidden  springs  of  mirth, 

Which  under  the  dark  lashes  evermore 

Shook  to  her  laugh,  as  when  a  bird  flies  low 

Between  the  water  and  the  willow-leaves, 

And  the  shade  quivers  till  he  wins  the  light. 

I  was  a  moody  comrade  to  her  then, 
For  all  the  love  I  bore  her.     Italy, 
The  weeping  desolate  mother,  long  has  claimed 
Her  sons'  strong  arms  to  lean  on,  and  their  hands 
To  lop  the  poisonous  thicket  from  her  path, 
Cleaving  her  way  to  light.     And  from  her  need 
Had  grown  the  fashion  of  my  whole  poor  life 
Which  I  was  proud  to  yield  her,  as  my  father 
Had  yielded  his.     And  this  had  come  to  be 
A  game  to  play,  a  love  to  clasp,  a  hate 
To  wreak,  all  things  together  that  a  man 
Needs  for  his  blood  to  ripen ;  till  at  times 
All  else  seemed  shadows,  and  I  wondered  still 
To  see  such  life  pass  muster  and  be  deemed 
Time's  bodily  substance.     In  those  hours,  no  doubt, 
To  the  young  girl  my  eyes  were  like  my  soul, — 
Dark  wells  of  death-in-life  that  yearned  for  day. 
And  though  she  ruled  me  always,  I  remember 
That  once  when  I  was  thus  and  she  still  kept 
Leaping  about  the  place  and  laughing,  I 
Did  almost  chide  her;  whereupon  she  knelt 
And  putting  her  two  hands  into  my  breast 
Sang  me  a  song.     Are  these  tears  in  my  eyes  ? 
T  is  long  since  I  have  wept  for  anything. 
I  thought  that  song  forgotten  out  of  mind; 
And  now,  just  as  I  spoke  of  it,  it  came 


a  Xast  Confession. 


All  back.     It  is  but  a  rude  thing,  ill  rhymed, 
Such  as  a  blind  man  chaunts  and  his  dog  hears 
Holding  the  platter,  when  the  children  run 
To  merrier  sport  and  leave  him.     Thus  it  goes: — 


La  bella  donna 
Piangendo  disse: 
"  Come  son  fisse 
Le  stelle  in  cielo! 
Quel  fiato  anelo 
Dello  stance  sole, 
Quanto  m'  assonna! 
E  la  luna,  macchiata 
Come  uno  specchio 
Logoro  e  vecchio, — 
Faccia  affannata, 
Che  cosa  vuole  ? 

"  Che  stelle,  luna,  e  sole, 
Ciascun,  m'  annoja 
E  m'  annojano  insieme; 
Non  me  ne  preme 
Ne  ci  prendo  gioja. 
E  veramente, 
Che  le  spalle  sien  franche 
E  le  braccia  bianche 
E  il  seno  caldo  e  tondo, 
Non  mi  fa  niente. 
Che  cosa  al  mondo 
Posso  piu  far  di  questi 
Se  non  piacciono   a  te,   come  di- 
cesti  ?  " 

La  donna  rise 

E  riprese  ridendo: — 

"  Questa  mano  che  prendo 

E  dunque  mia? 

Tu  m'  ami  dunque  ? 

Dimmelo  ancora 

Non  in  modo  qualunque, 

Ma  le  parole 

Belle  e  precise 

Che  dicesti  pria. 

'  Siccome  suole 
La  state  ialora 


She  wept,  sweet  lady, 
And  said  in  weeping: 
"What  spell  is  keeping 
The  stars  so  steady  ? 
Why  does  the  power 
Of  the  sun's  noon-hour 
To  sleep  so  move  me  ? 
And  the  moon  in  heaven, 
Stained  where  she  passes 
As  a  worn-out  glass  is, — 
Wearily  driven, 
Why  walks  she  above  me? 

"  Stars,  moon,  and  sun  too, 
I  'm  tired  of  either 
And  all  together! 
Whom  speak  they  unto 
That  I  should  listen  ? 
For  very  surely, 

Though  my  arms  and  shoulders 
Dazzle  beholders, 
And  my  eyes  glisten, 
All  's  nothing  purely ! 
What  are  words  said  for 
At  all  about  them, 
If  he  they  are  made  for 
Can  do  without  them  ?  " 

She  laughed,  sweet  lady, 
And  said  in  laughing: 
"  His  hand  clings  half  in 
My  own  already ! 
Oh !  do  you  love  me  ? 
Oh !  speak  of  passion 
In  no  new  fashion, 
No  loud  inveighings, 
But  the  old  sayings 
You  once  said  of  me. 

"  You  said:  '  As  summer, 
Through  boughs  grown  brittle, 


a  last  Confession, 


(Dicesti)  un  qualche  istante 
Tornare  innan^i  inverno, 
Cost  tufai  ch'  to  scerno 
Lefoglif  tutte  quante, 
Ben  ch'  io  certo  tenessi 
Per  passato  I'  autunno.' 

"  Eccolo  il  mio  alunno! 
Io  debbo  insegnargli 
Quei  cari  detti  istessi 
Ch'  ei  mi  disse  una  volta! 
Oime!     Che  cosa  dargli," 
(Ma  ridea  piano  piano 
Dei  baci  in  sulla  mano,) 
"  Ch'  ei  non    m'abbia    da   lungo 
tempo  tolta  ?  " 


Comes  back  a  little 
Ere  frosts  benumb  her, — 
So  bring'st  thou  to  me 
All  leaves  and  flowers, 
Though  autumn  's  gloomy 
To-day  in  the  bowers.' 

"  Oh!  does  he  love  me, 
When  my  voice  teaches 
The  very  speeches 
He  then  spoke  of  me  ? 
Alas!  what  flavour 
Still  with  me  lingers  ?  " 
(But  she  laughs  as  my  kisses 
Glowed  in  her  fingers 
With  love's  old  blisses.) 
"  Oh!  what  one  favour 
Remains  to  woo  him, 
Whose  whole  poor  savour 
Belongs  not  to  him  ?  " 


That  I  should  sing  upon  this  bed! — with  you 
To  listen,  and  such  words  still  left  to  say! 
Yet  was  it  I  that  sang  ?    The  voice  seemed  hers, 
As  on  the  very  day  she  sang  to  me; 
When,  having  done,  she  took  out  of  my  hand 
Something  that  I  had  played  with  all  the  while 
And  laid  it  down  beyond  my  reach;  and  so 
Turning  my  face  round  till  it  fronted  hers,— 
"  Weeping  or  laughing,  which  was  best  ?  "  she  said. 

But  these  are  foolish  tales.     How  should  I  show 
The  heart  that  glowed  then  with  love's  heat,  each  day 
More  and  more  brightly  ? — when  for  long  years  now 
The  very  flame  that  flew  about  the  heart, 
And  gave  it  fiery  wings,  has  come  to  be 
The  lapping  blaze  of  hell's  environment 
Whose  tongues  all  bid  the  molten  heart  despair. 

Yet  one  more  thing  comes  back  on  me  to-night 
Which  I  may  tell  you:  for  it  bore  my  soul 


a  Hast  Confession, 

Dread  firstlings  of  the  brood  that  rend  it  now. 
It  chanced  that  in  our  last  year's  wanderings 
We  4welt  at  Monza,  far  away  from  home, 
If  home  we  had:  and  in  the  Duomo  there 
1  sometimes  entered  with  her  when  she  prayed. 
An  image  of  Our  Lady  stands  there,  wrought 
In  marble  by  some  great  Italian  hand 
In  the  great  days  when  she  and  Italy 
Sat  on  one  throne  together:  and  to  her 
And  to  none  else  my  loved  one  told  her  heart. 
She  was  a  woman  then;  and  as  she  knelt, — 
Her  sweet  brow  in  the  sweet  brow's  shadow  there,- 
They  seemed  two  kindred  forms  whereby  our  land 
(Whose  work  still  serves  the  world  for  miracle) 
Made  manifest  herself  in  womanhood. 
Father,  the  day  I  speak  of  was  the  first   « 
For  weeks  that  I  had  borne  her  company 
Into  the  Duomo;  and  those  weeks  had  been 
Much  troubled,  for  then  first  the  glimpses  came 
Of  some  impenetrable  restlessness 
Growing  in  her  to  make  her  changed  and  cold. 
And  as  we  entered  there  that  day,  I  bent 
My  eyes  on  the  fair  Image,  and  I  said 
Within  my  heart,  "Oh  turn  her  heart  to  me! " 
And  so  I  left  her  to  her  prayers,  and  went 
To  gaze  upon  the  pride  of  Monza's  shrine, 
Where  in  the  sacristy  the  light  still  falls 
Upon  the  Iron  Crown  of  Italy, 

On  whose  crowned  heads  the  day  has  closed,  nor  yet 
The  daybreak  gilds  another  head  to  crown. 
But  coming  back,  I  wondered  when  I  saw 
That  the  sweet  Lady  of  her  prayers  now  stood 
Alone  without  her;  until  further  off, 
Before  some  new  Madonna  gaily  decked, 

[158] 


E  Xast  Confession, 

Tinselled  and  gewgawed,  a  slight  German  toy, 

1  saw  her  kneel,  still  praying.     At  my  step 

She  rose,  and  side  by  side  we  left  the  church. 

I  was  much  moved,  and  sharply  questioned  her 

Of  her  transferred  devotion;  but  she  seemed 

Stubborn  and  heedless;  till  she  lightly  laughed 

And  said:  "The  old  Madonna  ?    Aye  indeed, 

She  had  my  old  thoughts, — this  one  has  my  new." 

Then  silent  to  the  soul  I  held  my  way: 

And  from  the  fountains  of  the  public  place 

Unto  the  pigeon-haunted  pinnacles, 

Bright  wings  and  water  winnowed  the  bright  air; 

And  stately  with  her  laugh's  subsiding  smile 

She  went,  with  clear-swayed  waist  and  towering  neck 

And  hands  held  light  before  her;  and  the  face 

Which  long  had  made  a  day  in  my  life's  night 

Was  night  in  day  to  me;  as  all  men's  eyes 

Turned  on  her  beauty,  and  she  seemed  to  tread 

Beyond  my  heart  to  the  world  made  for  her. 

Ah,  there!  my  wounds  will  snatch  my  sense  again: 
The  pain  comes  billowing  on  like  a  full  cloud 
Of  thunder,  and  the  flash  that  breaks  from  it 
Leaves  my  brain  burning.     That 's  the  wound  he  gave, 
The  Austrian  whose  white  coat  I  still  made  match 
With  his  white  face,  only  the  two  grew  red * 
As  suits  his  trade.     The  devil  makes  them  wear 
White  for  a  livery,  that  the  blood  may  show 
Braver  that  brings  them  to  him.     So  he  looks 
Sheer  o'er  the  field  and  knows  his  own  at  once. 

Give  me  a  draught  of  water  in  that  cup; 
My  voice  feels  thick;  perhaps  you  do  not  hear; 
But  you  must  hear.     If  you  mistake  my  words 

[159] 


a  %ast  Confession. 

And  so  absolve  me,  I  am  sure  the  blessing 
Will  burn  my  soul.     If  you  mistake  my  words 
And  so  absolve  me,  Father,  the  great  sin 
Is  yours,  not  mine:  mark  this:  your  soul  shall  burn 
With  mine  for  it.     I  have  seen  pictures  where 
Souls  burned  with  Latin  shriekings  in  their  mouths: 
Shall  my  end  be  as  theirs  ?     Nay,  but  I  know 
Tis  you  shall  shriek  in  Latin.     Some  bell  rings, 
Rings  through  my  brain :  it  strikes  the  hour  in  hell. 

You  see  I  cannot,  Father;  I  have  tried, 
But  cannot,  as  you  see.     These  twenty  times 
Beginning,  I  have  come  to  the  same  point 
And  stopped.     Beyond,  there  are  but  broken  words 
Which  will  not  let  you  understand  my  tale. 
It  is  that  then  we  have  her  with  us  here, 
As  when  she  wrung  her  hair  out  in  my  dream 
To-night,  till  all  the  darkness  reeked  of  it. 
Her  hair  is  always  wet,  for  she  has  kept 
Its  tresses  wrapped  about  her  side  for  years; 
And  when  she  wrung  them  round  over  the  floor, 
I  heard  the  blood  between  her  fingers  hiss; 
So  that  I  sat  up  in  my  bed  and  screamed 
Once  and  again;  and  once  to  once,  she  laughed. 
Look  that  you  turn  not  now, — she  's  at  your  back: 
Gather  your  robe  up,  Father,  and  keep  close, 
Or  she  '11  sit  down  on  it  and  send  you  mad. 

At  Iglio  in  the  first  thin  shade  o'  the  hills 
The  sand  is  black  and  red.     The  black  was  black 
When  what  was  spilt  that  day  sank  into  it, 
And  the  red  scarcely  darkened.     There  I  stood 
This  night  with  her,  and  saw  the  sand  the  same. 

[160] 


a  Xaet  Confession. 

What  would  you  have  me  tell  you  ?    Father,  father, 
How  shall  I  make  you  know  ?    You  have  not  known 
The  dreadful  soul  of  woman,  who  one  day 
Forgets  the  old  and  takes  the  new  to  heart, 
Forgets  what  man  remembers,  and  therewith 
Forgets  the  man.     Nor  can  I  clearly  tell 
How  the  change  happened  between  her  and  me. 
Her  eyes  looked  on  me  from  an  emptied  heart 
When  most  my  heart  was  full  of  her;  and  still 
In  every  corner  of  myself  I  sought 
To  find  what  service  failed  her;  and  no  less 
Than  in  the  good  time  past,  there  all  was  hers. 
What  do  you  love  ?    Your  Heaven  ?    Conceive  it  spread 
For  one  first  year  of  all  eternity 
All  round  you  with  all  joys  and  gifts  of  God; 
And  then  when  most  your  soul  is  blent  with  it 
And  all  yields  song  together, — then  it  stands 
O'  the  sudden  like  a  pool  that  once  gave  back 
Your  image,  but  now  drowns  it  and  is  clear 
Again, — or  like  a  sun  bewitched,  that  burns 
Your  shadow  from  you,  and  still  shines  in  sight. 
How  could  you  bear  it  ?    Would  you  not  cry  out, 
Among  those  eyes  grown  blind  to  you,  those  ears 
That  hear  no  more  your  voice  you  hear  the  same, — 
"  God!  what  is  left  but  hell  for  company, 
But  hell,  hell,  hell  ?" — until  the  name  so  breathed 
Whirled  with  hot  wind  and  sucked  you  down  in  fire  ? 
Even  so  I  stood  the  day  her  empty  heart 
Left  her  place  empty  in  our  home,  while  yet 
1  knew  not  why  she  went  nor  where  she  went 
Nor  how  to  reach  her:  so  I  stood  the  day 
When  to  my  prayers  at  last  one  sight  of  her 
Was  granted,  and  I  looked  on  heaven  made  pale 
With  scorn,  and  heard  heaven  mock  me  in  that  laugh. 

VOL.  I. — II. 

[161] 


a  %aet  Confession. 


O  sweet,  long  sweet  !     Was  that  some  ghost  of  you, 
Even  as  your  ghost  that  haunts  me  now,  —  twin  shapes 
Of  fear  and  hatred  ?     May  I  find  you  yet 
Mine  when  death  wakes  ?    Ah!  be  it  even  in  flame, 
We  may  have  sweetness  yet,  if  you  but  say 
As  once  in  childish  sorrow:  "  Not  my  pain, 
My  pain  was  nothing:  oh  your  poor  poor  love, 
Your  broken  love!  " 

My  Father,  have  I  not 
Yet  told  you  the  last  things  of  that  last  day 
On  which  I  went  to  meet  her  by  the  sea  ? 

0  God,  O  God!  but  I  must  tell  you  all. 

Midway  upon  my  journey,  when  I  stopped 
To  buy  the  dagger  at  the  village  fair, 

1  saw  two  cursed  rats  about  the  place 

I  knew  for  spies  —  blood-sellers  both.     That  day 
Was  not  yet  over;  for  three  hours  to  come 
I  prized  my  life:  and  so  I  looked  around 
For  safety.     A  poor  painted  mountebank 
Was  playing  tricks  and  shouting  in  a  crowd. 
I  knew  he  must  have  heard  my  name,  so  I 
Pushed  past  and  whispered  to  him  who  I  was, 
And  of  my  danger.     Straight  he  hustled  me 
Into  his  booth,  as  it  were  in  the  trick, 
And  brought  me  out  next  minute  with  my  face 
All  smeared  in  patches  and  a  zany's  gown; 
And  there  I  handed  him  his  cups  and  balls 
And  swung  the  sand-bags  round  to  clear  the  ring 
For  half  an  hour.     The  spies  came  once  and  looked; 
And  while  they  stopped,  and  made  all  sights  and  sounds 
Sharp  to  my  startled  senses,  I  remember 
A  woman  laughed  above  me.     I  looked  up 
And  saw  where  a  brown-shouldered  harlot  leaned 

[162] 


a  Xast  Confession, 

Half  through  a  tavern  window  thick  with  vine. 
Some  man  had  come  behind  her  in  the  room 
And  caught  her  by  her  arms,  and  she  had  turned 
With  that  coarse  empty  laugh  on  him,  as  now 
He  munched  her  neck  with  kisses,  while  the  vine 
Crawled  in  her  back. 

And  three  hours  afterwards, 
When  she  that  I  had  run  all  risks  to  meet 
Laughed  as  I  told  you,  my  life  burned  to  death 
Within  me,  for  I  thought  it  like  the  laugh 
Heard  at  the  fair.     She  had  not  left  me  long; 
But  all  she  might  have  changed  to,  or  might  change  to, 
(I  know  nought  since — she  never  speaks  a  word — ) 
Seemed  in  that  laugh.     Have  I  not  told  you  yet, 
Not  told  you  all  this  time  what  happened,  Father, 
When  I  had  offered  her  the  little  knife, 
And  bade  her  keep  it  for  my  sake  that  loved  her, 
And  she  had  laughed  ?     Have  I  not  told  you  yet  ? 

"Take  it,"  I  said  to  her  the  second  time, 
"  Take  it  and  keep  it."     And  then  came  a  fire 
That  burnt  my  hand;  and  then  the  fire  was  blood, 
And  sea  and  sky  were  blood  and  fire,  and  all 
The  day  was  one  red  blindness;  till  it  seemed,2 
Within  the  whirling  brain's  eclipse,  that  she 
Or  I  or  all  things  bled  or  burned  to  death. 
And  then  I  found  her  laid  against  my  feet 
And  knew  that  I  had  stabbed  her,  and  saw  still 
Her  look  in  falling.     For  she  took  the  knife 
Deep  in  her  heart,  even  as  I  bade  her  then, 
And  fell;  and  her  stiff  bodice  scooped  the  sand 
Into  her  bosom. 

And  she  keeps  it,  see, 

Do  you  not  see  she  keeps  it  ? — there,  beneath 

[163] 


a  Xa0t  Confession, 

Wet  fingers  and  wet  tresses,  in  her  heart. 
For  look  you,  when  she  stirs  her  hand,  it  shows 
The  little  hilt  of  horn  and  pearl, — even  such 
A  dagger  as  our  women  of  the  coast 
Twist  in  their  garters. 

Father,  I  have  done: 

And  from  her  side  she  now  unwinds  the  thick 
Dark  hair;  all  round  her  side  it  is  wet  through, 
But,  like  the  sand  at  Iglio,  does  not  change. 
Now  you  may  see  the  dagger  clearly.     Father, 
1  have  told  all:  tell  me  at  once  what  hope 
Can  reach  me  still.     For  now  she  draws  it  out 
Slowly,  and  only  smiles  as  yet:  look,  Father, 
She  scarcely  smiles:  but  I  shall  hear  her  laugh 
Soon,  when  she  shows  the  crimson  steel3  to  God. 


[164] 


A  YOUNG  FIR-WOOD. 

(Between  Ightham  and  Sevenoaks,  November,  1850.) 

THESE  little  firs  to-day  are  things 

To  clasp  into  a  giant's  cap, 

Or  fans  to  suit  his  lady's  lap. 
From  many  winters  many  springs 

Shall  cherish  them  in  strength  and  sap 

Till  they  be  marked  upon  the  map, 
A  wood  for  the  wind's  wanderings. 

All  seed  is  in  the  sower's  hands: 
And  what  at  first  was  trained  to  spread 
Its  shelter  for  some  single  head,— 

Yea,  even  such  fellowship  of  wands, — 
May  hide  the  sunset,  and  the  shade 
Of  its  great  multitude  be  laid 

Upon  the  earth  and  elder  sands. 


[165] 


DURING  MUSIC. 

(1850.) 

O  COOL  unto  the  sense  of  pain 

That  last  night's  sleep  could  not  destroy; 

O  warm  unto  the  sense  of  joy, 
That  dreams  its  life  within  the  brain. 

What  though  I  lean  o'er  thee  to  scan 
The  written  music  cramped  and  stiff; — 
'T  is  dark  to  me,  as  hieroglyph 

On  those  weird  bulks  Egyptian. 

But  as  from  those,  dumb  now  and  strange, 
A  glory  wanders  on  the  earth, 
Even  so  thy  tones  can  call  a  birth 

From  these,  to  shake  my  soul  with  change. 

O  swift,  as  in  melodious  haste 

Float  o'er  the  keys  thy  fingers  small; 
O  soft,  as  is  the  rise  and  fall 

Which  stirs  that  shade  within  thy  breast. 


[166] 


DURING  MUSIC. 

(.850.) 

O  COOL  unto  the  sense  of  pain 

That  last  night's  sleep  could  not  destroy ; 

O  warm  unto  the  sense  of  joy, 
That  dreams  its  life  within  the  brain. 


What  thou^ 


iark 


But  as  from  those,  dumb  now  and  strange, 
A  glory  wanders  on  the  earth, 
Even  so  thy  tones  can  call  a  birth 

From  these,  to  shake  my  soul  with  change. 

O  swift,  as  in  melodious  haste 

Float  o'er  the  keys  thy  fingers  small; 
O  soft,  as  is  the  rise  and  fall 

Which  stirs  that  shade  within  thy  breast 


[166] 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  BURDEN 
OF  NINEVEH. 

ROSSETTI,  watching  some  of  the  Nineveh  sculptures 
unpacked  at  the  Museum  in  London,  received 
from  them  his  suggestion  for  this  poem, —  one  of  the  very 
few  in  which  he  meditates  at  length  upon  mankind  in 
general,  their  faiths,  and  the  vagaries  of  their  fortunes. 
Ruskin  was  mightily  impressed  by  the  poem  and  wrote 
with  characteristic  ecstasy  and  humility  to  Rossetti : 

"  I  am  wild  to  know  who  is  the  author  of  The  Burden 
of  Nineveh,  in  No.  8  of  Oxford  and  Cambridge.  Jt  is 
glorious.  Please  find  out  for  me  and  see  if  I  can  get 
acquainted  with  him." 

Rossetti  must,  of  course,  have  replied  that  he  was  the 
author,  and  one  instinctively  laments  for  Ruskin  the  loss 
of  a  new  idol  on  whom  to  heap  praise  and  patronage. 

The  Oxford  and  Cambridge  version  was  very  differ- 
ent from  the  later  versions,  and  will  be  interesting  to 
students  of  Rossetti's  careful  methods  in  revision. 

The  following  five  lines  belong  to  the  original  draft  of 
the  poem,  and  Rossetti  thought  of  restoring  them  in  the 
1870  volume,  but  finally  concluded  to  leave  them  out, 
remembering  that  "Brown  once  suggested  difficulties 
about  the  shells,  bells,  etc. — could  they  be  heard  under 
the  earth  ?  Were  there  any  to  be  heard,  etc." 

"  How  much  of  Heaven's  thunder  —  how  much  else 
Man's  puny  roar? —what  cry  of  shells 
Cleft  amid  leaguered  citadels  — 
How  many  lordships  loud  with  bells 
Heardst  thou  in  secret  Nineveh  ?  " 


[167] 


OXFORD  AND  CAMBRIDGE  VERSION 
OF  THE  BURDEN  OF  NINEVEH. 

"Burden.    Heavy  calamity;  the  chorus  of  a  song." — Dictionary. 

I  HAVE  no  taste  for  polyglot: 
At  the  Museum  't  was  my  lot, 
Just  once,  to  jot  and  blot  and  rot 
In  Babel  for  I  know  not  what. 

1  went  at  two,  I  left  at  three. 
Round  those  still  floors  I  tramp'd,  to  win 
By  the  great  porch  the  dirt  and  din; 
And  as  I  made  the  last  door  spin 
And  issued,  they  were  hoisting  in 

A  winged  beast  from  Nineveh. 


A  human  face  the  creature  wore, 
And  hoofs  behind  and  hoofs  before, 
And  flanks  with  dark  runes  fretted  o'er. 
'T  was  bull,  't  was  mitred  minotaur; 

A  dead  disbowell'd  mystery; 
The  mummy  of  a  buried  faith, 
Stark  from  the  charnel  without  scathe, 
Its  wings  stood  for  the  light  to  bathe, — 
Such  fossil  cerements  as  might  swathe 

The  very  corpse  of  Nineveh. 

Some  colour'd  Arab  straw-matting, 
Half-ripp'd,  was  still  upon  the  thing. 
(What  song  did  the  brown  maidens  sing, 
From  purple  mouths  alternating, 

When  that  was  woven  languidly  ?) 
[168] 


Burfcen  of  IRineveb. 


What  vows,  what  rites,  what  prayers  preferr'd, 
What  songs  has  the  strange  image  heard  ? 
In  what  blind  vigil  stood  interr'd 
For  ages,  till  an  English  word 

Broke  silence  first  at  Nineveh  ? 


On  London  stones  our  sun  anew 
The  beast's  recover'd  shadow  threw 
No  shade  that  plague  of  darkness  knew, 
No  light,  no  shade,  while  older  grew 

By  ages  the  old  earth  and  sea. 
Oh!  seem'd  it  not  —  that  spell  once  broke, 
As  though  the  sculptured  warriors  woke 
As  though  the  shaft  the  string  forsook, 
The  cymbals  clash'd,  the  chariots  shook, 

And  there  was  life  in  Nineveh  ? 

On  London  stones  its  shape  lay  scored, 
That  day  when,  nigh  the  gates,  the  Lord 
Shelter'd  His  Jonah  with  a  gourd, 
This  sun  (I  said)  here  present,  pour'd 

Even  thus  this  shadow  that  I  see. 
This  shadow  has  been  shed  the  same 
From  sun  and  moon, — from  lamps  which  came 
For  prayer, —  from  fifteen  days  of  flame, 
The  last,  while  smoulder'd  to  a  name 

Sardanapalus'  Nineveh. 

Within  thy  shadow,  haply,  once 
Sennacherib  has  knelt,  whose  sons 
Smote  him  between  the  altar-stones: 
Or  pale  Semiramis  her  zones 

Of  gold,  her  incense  brought  to  thee, 
In  love  for  grace,  in  war  for  aid;     .     .     . 
Ay,  and  who  else?     .     .     .     till  'neath  thy  shade 
Within  his  trenches  newly  made 
Last  year  the  Christian  knelt  and  pray'd  — 

Not  to  thy  strength  —  in  Nineveh. 

[169] 


UBurfcen  of  1Rine\>eb, 


Now,  thou  poor  god,  within  this  hall 
Where  the  blank  windows  blind  the  wall 
From  pedestal  to  pedestal, 
The  kind  of  light  shall  on  thee  fall 

Which  London  takes  the  day  to  be. 
Here  cold-pinch'd  clerks  on  yellow  days 
Shall  stop  and  peer;  and  in  sun-haze 
Small  clergy  crimp  their  eyes  to  gaze; 
And  misses  titter  in  their  stays, 

Just  fresh  from  "  Layard's  Nineveh." 

Here,  while  the  Antique-students  lunch, 
Shall  Art  be  slang'd  o'er  cheese  and  hunch, 
Whether  the  great  R.A.  's  a  bunch 
Of  gods  or  dogs,  and  whether  Punch 

Is  right  about  the  P.  R.  B.  ? 
Here  school-foundations  in  the  act 
Of  holiday,  three  files  compact 
Shall  learn  to  view  thee  as  a  fact 
Connected  with  that  zealous  tract, 

"  Rome:   Babylon  and  Nineveh." 

Deem'd  they  of  this,  those  worshippers, 
When,  in  some  mythic  chain  of  verse, 
Which  man  shall  not  again  rehearse, 
The  faces  of  thy  ministers 

Yearn'd  pale  with  bitter  ecstasy? 
Greece,  Egypt,  Rome,  —  did  any  god 
Before  whose  feet  men  knelt  unshod, 
Deem  that  in  this  unblest  abode 
An  elder,  scarce  more  unknown  god, 

Should  house  with  him  from  Nineveh? 

Ah  !  in  what  quarries  lay  the  stone 
From  which  this  pigmy  pile  has  grown, 
Unto  man's  need  how  long  unknown, 
Since  thy  vast  temple,  court  and  cone 
Rose  far  in  desert  history? 
[170] 


Burfcen  of  IRinevefx 


Ah !  what  is  here  that  does  not  lie 
All  strange  to  thine  awaken'd  eye  ? 
Ah !  what  is  here  can  testify, 
(Save  that  dumb  presence  of  the  sky) 
Unto  thy  day  and  Nineveh  ? 

Why,  of  those  mummies  in  the  room 
Above,  there  might  indeed  have  come 
One  out  of  Egypt  to  thy  home, 
A  pilgrim.     Nay,  but  even  to  some 

Of  these  thou  wert  antiquity! 
And  now,  they  and  their  gods  and  thou, 
All  relics  here  together, — now 
Whose  profit  ?     Whether  bull  or  cow, 
Isis  or  Ibis,  who  or  how, 

Whether  of  Thebes  or  Nineveh  ? 

The  consecrated  metals  found, 
And  ivory  tablets,  underground, — 
Wing'd  teraphim  and  creatures  crown'd,- 
When  air  and  daylight  fill'd  the  mound, 

Fell  into  dust  immediately. 
And  even  as  these,  the  images 
Of  awe  and  worship, — even  as  these, — 
So,  smitten  with  the  sun's  increase, 
Her  glory  mouldered  and  did  cease 

From  immemorial  Nineveh. 

The  day  her  builders  made  their  halt, 
Those  cities  of  the  lake  of  salt 

Stood  firmly  stablish'd  without  fault, 

Made  proud  with  pillars  of  basalt, 

With  sardonyx  and  porphyry. 

The  day  that  Jonah  bore  abroad 

To  Nineveh  the  voice  of  God, 

Beside  a  brackish  lake  he  trod 

Where  erst  Pride  fix'd  her  sure  abode, 
As  then  in  royal  Nineveh. 


IBurfcen  of  IRinevelx 


The  day  when  he,  Pride's  Lord  and  Man's, 
Show'd  all  earth's  kingdoms  at  a  glance 
To  Him  before  whose  countenance 
The  years  recede,  the  years  advance, 

And  said,  Fall  down  and  worship  me; 
'Mid  all  the  pomp  beneath  that  look, 
Then  stirr'd  there,  haply,  some  rebuke, 
When  to  the  wind  the  salt  pools  shook, 
And  in  those  tracts,  of  life  forsook, 

That  knew  thee  not,  O  Nineveh! 

Delicate  harlot, — eldest  grown 
Of  earthly  queens!     thou  on  thy  throne 
In  state  for  ages  sat'st  alone; 
And  need  were  years  and  lustres  flown 

Ere  strength  of  man  could  vanquish  thee: 
Whom  even  thy  victor  foes  must  bring 
Still  royal,  among  maids  that  sing 
As  with  doves'  voices,  laboring 
Upon  their  breasts,  unto  the  King, — 

A  kingly  conquest,  Nineveh! 

.     .     .     Here  woke  my  thought.     The  wind's  slow  sway 

Had  wax'd;  and  like  the  human  play 

Of  scorn  that  smiling  spreads  away, 

The  sunshine  shiver'd  off  the  day: 

The  callous  wind,  it  seem'd  to  me, 

Swept  up  the  shadow  from  the  ground: 

And  pale,  as  whom  the  Fates  astound 

The  god  forlorn  stood  wing'd  and  crown'd: 

Within  I  knew  the  cry  lay  bound 

Of  the  dumb  soul  of  Nineveh. 

Then  waking  up,  I  turn'd,  because 
That  day  my  spirits  might  not  pause 
O'er  any  dead  thing's  doleful  laws; 
That  day  all  hope  with  glad  applause 

Through  miles  of  London  beckon'd  me. 
[172] 


Gbe  Burfcen  of  Vlineveb. 

And  all  the  wealth  of  life's  free  choice, 
Love's  ardour,  friendship's  equipoise, 
And  Ellen's  gaze  and  Philip's  voice, 
And  all  that  evening's  curtain  joys, 

Struck  pale  my  dream  of  Nineveh. 


Yet  while  I  walk'd,  my  sense  half  shut 
Still  saw  the  crowds  of  kerb  and  rut 
Go  past  as  marshall'd  to  the  strut 
Of  ranks  in  gypsum  quaintly  cut. 

It  seem'd  in  one  same  pageantry 
They  follow'd  forms  which  had  been  erst; 
To  pass,  till  on  my  sight  should  burst 
That  future  of  the  best  or  worst 
When  some  may  question  which  was  first, 

Of  London  or  of  Nineveh. 

For  as  that  Bull-god  once  did  stand 
And  watch'd  the  burial-clouds  of  sand, 
Till  these  at  last  without  a  hand 
Rose  o'er  his  eyes,  another  land, 

And  blinded  him  with  destiny: 
So  may  he  stand  again;  till  now, 
In  ships  of  unknown  sail  and  prow, 
Some  tribe  of  the  Australian  plough 
Bear  him  afar,  a  relic  now 

Of  London,  not  of  Nineveh. 

Or  it  may  chance  indeed  that  when 
Man's  age  is  hoary  among  men, 
His  centuries  threescore  and  ten, — 
His  furthest  childhood  shall  seem  then 

More  clear  than  later  times  may  be: 
Who  finding  in  this  desert  place 
This  form,  shall  hold  us  for  some  race 

That  walk'd  not  in  Christ's  lowly  ways, 
But  bow'd  its  pride  and  vow'd  its  praise 

Unto  the  god  of  Nineveh. 

[173] 


of  Itineveb. 


The  smile  rose  first,  —  anon  drew  nigh 

The  thought:     .     .     .     Those  heavy  wings  spread  high 

So  sure  of  flight,  which  do  not  fly  ; 

That  set  gaze  never  on  the  sky; 

Those  scriptured  flanks  it  cannot  see; 
Its  crown,  a  brow-contracting  load; 
Its  planted  feet  which  trust  the  sod  :     .     .     . 
(So  grew  the  image  as  I  trod) 
O  Nineveh,  was  this  thy  God, 

Thine  also,  mighty  Nineveh? 


[174] 


THE  BURDEN  OF  NINEVEH.1 

IN  our  Museum  galleries 

To-day  I  lingered  o'er  the  prize 

Dead  Greece  vouchsafes  to  living  eyes, — 

Her  art  for  ever  in  fresh  wise 

From  hour  to  hour  rejoicing  me. 
Sighing  I  turned  at  last  to  win 
Once  more  the  London  dirt  and  din; 
And  as  I  made  the  swing-door  spin 
And  issued,  they  were  hoisting  in 

A  winged  beast  from  Nineveh. 

A  human  face  the  creature  wore, 
And  hoofs  behind  and  hoofs  before, 
And  flanks  with  dark  runes  fretted  o'er. 
T  was  bull,  't  was  mitred  Minotaur, 

A  dead  disbowelled  mystery: 
The  mummy  of  a  buried  faith 
Stark  from  the  charnel  without  scathe, 
Its  wings  stood  for  the  light  to  bathe,— 
Such  fossil  cerements  as  might  swathe 

The  very  corpse  of  Nineveh. 

The  print  of  its  first  rush-wrapping, 
Wound  ere  it  dried,  still  ribbed  the  thing. 
What  song  did  the  brown  maidens  sing, 
From  purple  mouths  alternating, 
When  that  was  woven  languidly  ? 


Burfcen  of  IFUnevefx 


What  vows,  what  rights,  what  prayers  preferr'd, 
What  songs  has  the  strange  image  heard  ? 
In  what  blind  vigil  stood  interr'd 
For  ages,  till  an  English  word 
Broke  silence  first  at  Nineveh  ? 

Oh,  when  upon  each  sculptured  court, 
Where  even  the  wind  might  not  resort,  — 
O'er  which  Time  passed,  of  like  import 
With  the  wild  Arab  boys  at  sport,— 

A  living  face  looked  in  to  see  :— 
Oh,  seemed  it  not  —  the  spell  once  broke  — 
As  though  the  carven  warriors  woke, 
As  though  the  shaft  the  string  forsook, 
The  symbols  clashed,  the  chariots  shook, 

And  there  was  life  in  Nineveh  ? 

On  London  stones  our  sun  anew 
The  beast's  recovered  shadow  threw. 
(No  shade  that  plague  of  darkness  knew, 
No  light,  no  shade,  while  older  grew 

By  ages  the  old  earth  and  sea.) 
Lo  thou!  could  all  thy  priests  have  shown 
Such  proof  to  make  thy  godhead  known  ? 
From  their  dead  Past  thou  liv'st  alone; 
And  still  thy  shadow  is  thine  own, 

Even  as  of  yore  in  Nineveh. 

That  day  whereof  we  keep  record, 
When  near  thy  city-gates  the  Lord 
Sheltered  His  Jonah  with  a  gourd, 
This  sun,  (I  said)  here  present,  pour'd 
Even  thus  this  shadow  that  I  see. 
[176] 


Burfcen  of  flineveb. 


This  shadow  has  been  shed  the  same 
From  sun  and  moon,  —  from  lamps  which  came 
For  prayer,  —  from  fifteen  days  of  flame, 
The  last,  while  smouldered  to  a  name 
Sardanapalus'  Nineveh. 

Within  thy  shadow,  haply,  once 
Sennacherib  has  knelt,  whose  sons 
Smote  him  between  the  altar-stones: 
Or  pale  Semiramis  her  zones 

Of  gold,  her  incense  brought  to  thee, 
In  love  for  grace,  in  war  for  aid:     .     .     . 
Ay,  and  who  else  ?    .     .     .     till  'neath  thy  shade 
Within  his  trenches  newly  made 
Last  year  the  Christian  knelt  and  pray'd  — 

Not  to  thy  strength  —  in  Nineveh.1 

Now,  thou  poor  god,  within  this  hall 
Where  the  blank  windows  blind  the  wall 
From  pedestal  to  pedestal, 
The  kind  of  light  shall  on  thee  fall 

Which  London  takes  the  day  to  be: 
While  school-foundations  in  the  act 
Of  holiday,  three  files  compact, 
Shall  learn  to  view  thee  as  a  fact 
Connected  with  that  zealous  tract: 

"ROME,  —  Babylon  and  Nineveh." 

Deemed  they  of  this,  those  worshipers, 
When,  in  some  mythic  chain  of  verse 
Which  man  shall  not  again  rehearse, 
The  faces  of  thy  ministers 
Yearned  pale  with  bitter  ecstasy  ? 

VOL.  I.  —  12. 

[1773 


Burfcen  of  TOneveb. 


Greece,  Egypt,  Rome,  —  did  any  god 
Before  whose  feet  men  knelt  unshod 
Deem  that  in  this  unblest  abode 
Another  scarce  more  unknown  god 
Should  house  with  him,  from  Nineveh  ? 

Ah  !  in  what  quarries  lay  the  stone 
From  which  this  pillared  pile  has  grown, 
Unto  man's  need  how  long  unknown, 
Since  those  thy  temples,  court  and  cone, 

Rose  far  in  desert  history  ? 
Ah  !  what  is  here  that  does  not  lie 
All  strange  to  thine  awakened  eye  ? 
Ah  !  what  is  here  can  testify 
(Save  that  dumb  presence  of  the  sky) 

Unto  thy  day  and  Nineveh  ? 

Why,  of  those  mummies  in  the  room 
Above,  there  might  indeed  have  come 
One  out  of  Egypt  to  thy  home, 
An  alien.     Nay,  but  were  not  some 

Of  these  thine  own  "antiquity  "  ? 
And  now,  —  they  and  their  gods  and  thou 
All  relics  here  together,—  now 
Whose  profit  ?  whether  bull  or  cow, 
Isis  or  Ibis,  who  or  how, 

Whether  of  Thebes  or  Nineveh  ? 

The  consecrated  metals  found, 
And  ivory  tablets,  underground, 
Winged  teraphim  and  creatures  crown'd, 
When  air  and  daylight  filled  the  mound, 
Fell  into  dust  immediately. 
[178] 


Burfcen  of  TOnevelx 


And  even  as  these,  the  images 
Of  awe  and  worship, — even  as  these, — 
So,  smitten  with  the  sun's  increase, 
Her  glory  mouldered  and  did  cease 
From  immemorial  Nineveh. 

The  day  her  builders  made  their  halt, 
Those  cities  of  the  lake  of  salt 
Stood  firmly  'stablished  without  fault, 
Made  proud  with  pillars  of  basalt, 

With  sardonyx  and  porphyry. 
The  day  that  Jonah  bore  abroad 
To  Nineveh  the  voice  of  God, 
A  brackish  lake  lay  in  his  road, 
Where  erst  Pride  fixed  her  sure  abode, 

As  then  in  royal  Nineveh. 

The  day  when  he,  Pride's  lord  and  Man's, 
Showed  all  the  kingdoms  at  a  glance 
To  Him  before  whose  countenance 
The  years  recede,  the  years  advance, 

And  said,  Fall  down  and  worship  me: — 
'Mid  all  the  pomp  beneath  that  look, 
Then  stirred  there,  haply,  some  rebuke, 
Where  to  the  wind  the  Salt  Pools  shook, 
And  in  those  tracts,  of  life  forsook, 

That  knew  thee  not,  O  Nineveh! 

Delicate  harlot!     On  thy  throne 
Thou  with  a  world  beneath  thee  prone 
In  state  for  ages  sat'st  alone ; 
And  needs  were  years  and  lustres  flown 
Ere  strength  of  man  could  vanquish  thee: 
[179] 


Burben  of  1Rinet>eb. 

Whom  even  thy  victor  foes  must  bring. 
Still  royal,  among  maids  that  sing 
As  with  doves'  voices,  taboring 
Upon  their  breasts,  unto  the  King, — 
A  kingly  conquest,  Nineveh! 

.    .    .    Here  woke  my  thought.    The  wind's 

slow  sway 

Had  wax'd;  and  like  the  human  play 
Of  scorn  that  smiling  spreads  away, 
The  sunshine  shiver'd  off  the  day: 

The  callous  wind,  it  seem'd  to  me, 
Swept  up  the  shadow  from  the  ground: 
And  pale  as  whom  the  Fates  astound, 
The  god  forlorn  stood  wing'd  and  crown'd: 
Within  I  knew  the  cry  lay  bound 

Of  the  dumb  soul  of  Nineveh. 

And  as  I  turned,  my  sense  half  shut 
Still  saw  the  crowds  of  kerb  and  rut 
Go  past  as  marshall'd  to  the  strut 
Of  ranks  in  gypsum  quaintly  cut. 

It  seemed  in  one  same  pageantry 
They  folio w'd  forms  which  had  been  erst; 
To  pass,  till  on  my  sight  should  burst 
That  future  of  the  best  or  worst 
When  some  may  question  which  was  first, 

Of  London  or  of  Nineveh. 

For  as  that  Bull-god  once  did  stand 
And  watched  the  burial-clouds  of  sand, 
Till  these  at  last  without  a  hand 
Rose  o'er  his  eyes,  another  land, 
And  blinded  him  with  destiny: 
[180] 


Burfcen  of  TOneveb. 


So  may  he  stand  again  ;   till  now, 
In  ships  of  unknown  sail  and  prow, 
Some  tribe  of  the  Australian  plough 
Bear  him  afar,  a  relic  now 
Of  London,  not  of  Nineveh! 

Or  it  may  chance  indeed  that  when 
Man's  age  is  hoary  among  men, 
His  centuries  threescore  and  ten,  — 
His  furthest  childhood  shall  seem  then 

More  clear  than  later  times  may  be: 
Who,  finding  in  this  desert  place 
This  form,  shall  hold  us  for  some  race 
That  walked  not  in  Christ's  lowly  ways, 
But  bow'd  its  pride  and  vow'd  its  praise 

Unto  the  God  of  Nineveh. 

The  smile  rose  first,  —  anon  drew  nigh 
The  thought:     .    .    .     Those  heavy  wings 

spread  high, 

So  sure  of  flight,  which  do  not  fly; 
That  set  gaze  never  on  the  sky; 

Those  scriptured  flanks  it  cannot  see; 
Its  crown,  a  brow-contracting  load  ; 
Its  planted  feet  which  trust  the  sod:     .     . 
(So  grew  the  image  as  I  trod  :) 
O  Nineveh,  was  this  thy  God,  — 

Thine  also,  mighty  Nineveh  ? 


[181] 


THE  CHURCH-PORCH.1 

SISTER,  first  shake  we  off  the  dust  we  have 
Upon  our  feet,  lest  it  defile  the  stones 
Inscriptured,  covering  their  sacred  bones 

Who  lie  i'  the  aisles  which  keep  the  names  they  gave, 

Their  trust  abiding  round  them  in  the  grave; 
Whom  painters  paint  for  visible  orisons, 
And  to  whom  sculptors  pray  in  stone  and  bronze; 

Their  voices  echo  still  like  a  spent  wave. 

Without  here,  the  church-bells  are  but  a  tune, 
And  on  the  carven  church-door  this  hot  noon 

Lays  all  its  heavy  sunshine  here  without: 
But  having  entered  in,  we  shall  find  there 
Silence,  and  sudden  dimness,  and  deep  prayer, 

And  faces  of  crowned  angels  all  about. 


[182] 


WELLINGTON'S  FUNERAL. 

i8th  November, 


"VICTORY!  " 

So  once  more  the  cry  must  be. 
Duteous  mourning  we  fulfil 
In  God's  name;  but  by  God's  will, 
Doubt  not,  the  last  word  is  still 

"Victory!" 

Funeral, 

In  the  music  round  this  pall, 
Solemn  grief  yields  earth  to  earth; 
But  what  tones  of  solemn  mirth 
In  the  pageant  of  new  birth 
Rise  and  fall  ? 

For  indeed, 

If  our  eyes  were  opened, 
Who  shall  say  what  escort  floats 
Here,  which  breath  nor  gleam  denotes,- 
Fiery  horses,  chariots 

Fire-footed  ? 

Trumpeter, 

Even  thy  call  he  may  not  hear; 
Long-known  voice  for  ever  past, 
Till  with  one  more  trumpet-blast 
God's  assuring  word  at  last 

Reach  his  ear. 


funeral. 


Multitude, 

Hold  your  breath  in  reverent  mood  : 
For  while  earth's  whole  kindred  stand 
Mute  even  thus  on  either  hand, 
This  soul's  labour  shall  be  scann'd 

And  found  good. 

Cherubim, 

Lift  ye  not  even  now  your  hymn  ? 
Lo!  once  lent  for  human  lack, 
Michael's  sword  is  rendered  back. 
Thrills  not  now  the  starry  track, 

Seraphim  ? 

Gabriel, 

Since  the  gift  of  thine  "All  hail!" 
Out  of  Heaven  no  time  hath  brought 
Gift  with  fuller  blessing  fraught 
Than  the  peace  which  this  man  wrought 

Passing  well. 

Be  no  word 

Raised  of  bloodshed  Christ  abhorr'd. 
Say:  "T  was  thus  in  His  decrees 
Who  Himself,  the  Prince  of  Peace, 
For  His  harvest's  high  increase 

Sent  a  sword." 

Veterans, 

He  by  whom  the  neck  of  France 
Then  was  given  unto  your  heel, 
Timely  sought,  may  lend  as  well 
To  your  sons  his  terrible 

Countenance. 
[184] 


funeral. 


Waterloo! 

As  the  last  grave  must  renew, 
Ere  fresh  death,  the  banshee-strain,  — 
So  methinks  upon  thy  plain 
Falls  some  presage  in  the  rain, 

In  the  dew. 

And  O  thou, 

Watching  with  an  exile's  brow 
Unappeased,  o'er  death's  dumb  flood:- 
Lo  !  the  saving  strength  of  God 
In  some  new  heart's  English  blood 

Slumbers  now. 

Emperor, 

Is  this  all  thy  work  was  for  ?  — 
Thus  to  see  thy  self-sought  aim, 
Yea  thy  titles,  yea  thy  name, 
In  another's  shame,  to  shame 

Bandied  o'er?  * 

Wellington, 

Thy  great  work  is  but  begun. 
With  quick  seed  his  end  is  rife 
Whose  long  tale  of  conquering  strife 
Shows  no  triumph  like  his  life 

Lost  and  won. 


[185] 


INTRODUCTION   TO     '  STRATTON 
WATER." 

IN  this  one  instance  only  in  the  course  of  his  ballad- 
writing  did  Rossetti  attempt  closely  to  conform  to 
the  old  ballad  type.  We  find  him  defending  Stratton 
Water  from  certain  strictures  by  William  Allingham  as 
follows : 

''Many  thanks  for  your  minute  criticism  on  my 
ballad,  which  was  just  of  the  kind  I  wanted.  Not,  of 
course,  that  a  British  poet  is  going  to  knock  under  on  all 
points, — accordingly,  I  take  care  to  disagree  from  you  in 
various  respects  —  as  regards  abruptnesses,  improbabili- 
ties, prosaicisms,  coarsenesses,  and  other  esses  and  isms, 
not  more  prominent,  I  think,  in  my  production  than  in 
its  models.  As  to  dialect  there  is  much  to  be  said,  but  I 
doubt  much  whether,  as  you  say,  mine  is  more  Scotti- 
cised than  many  or  even  the  majority  of  genuine  old 
ballads." 

Before  publishing  Stratton  Water  in  the  volume  of 
1870,  Rossetti  added  to  the  original  draft  three  stanzas 
after  the  line,  "  The  nags  were  in  the  stall,"  to  give  the 
gradual  impression  of  Lord  Sands's  recognising  the  girl 
whom  he  thought  dead;  and  a  further  stanza, —  "about 
the  priest  in  a  funk  "  to  use  Rossetti's  own  expressive 
phrase. 


[186] 


STRATTON  WATER. 

"  O  HAVE  you  seen  the  Stratton  flood 
That 's  great  with  rain  to-day  ? 

It  runs  beneath  your  wall,  Lord  Sands, 
Full  of  the  new-mown  hay. 

"I  led  your  hounds  to  Hutton  bank 

To  bathe  at  early  morn : 
They  got  their  bath  by  Borrowbrake 

Above  the  standing  corn." 

Out  from  the  castle-stair  Lord  Sands 
Looked  up  the  western  lea ; 

The  rook  was  grieving  on  her  nest, 
The  flood  was  round  her  tree. 

Over  the  castle-wall  Lord  Sands 
Looked  down  the  eastern  hill: 

The  stakes  swam  free  among  the  boats, 
The  flood  was  rising  still. 

"  What  's  yonder  far  below  that  lies 
So  white  against  the  slope  ?" 

"  O  it  's  a  sail  o'  your  bonny  barks 
The  waters  have  washed  up." 

"  But  I  have  never  a  sail  so  white, 
And  the  water  's  is  not  yet  there." 

"  O  it  's  the  swans  o'  your  bonny  lake 
The  rising  flood  doth  scare." 
[187] 


"  The  swans  they  would  not  hold  so  still, 

So  high  they  would  not  win." 
"  O  it 's  Joyce  my  wife  has  spread  her  smock 

And  fears  to  fetch  it  in." 

"Nay,  knave,  it 's  neither  sail  nor  swans, 

Nor  aught  that  you  can  say ; 
For  though  your  wife  might  leave  her  smock, 

Herself  she  'd  bring  away." 

Lord  Sands  has  passed  the  turret-stair, 

The  court,  and  yard,  and  all; 
The  kine  were  in  the  byre  that  day, 

The  nags  were  in  the  stall. 

Lord  Sands  has  won  the  weltering  slope 

Whereon  the  white  shape  lay: 
The  clouds  were  still  above  the  hill, 

And  the  shape  was  still  as  they. 

Oh  pleasant  is  the  gaze  of  life 

And  sad  is  death's  blind  head; 
But  awful  are  the  living  eyes 

In  the  face  of  one  thought  dead! 

"  In  God's  name,  Janet,  is  it  me 

Thy  ghost  has  come  to  seek  ?  " 
"  Nay,  wait  another  hour,  Lord  Sands, — 

Be  sure  my  ghost  shall  speak." 

A  moment  stood  he  as  a  stone, 

Then  grovelled  to  his  knee. 
"  O  Janet,  O  my  love,  my  love, 

Rise  up  and  come  with  me!  " 
"  O  once  before  you  bade  me  come, 

And  it  's  here  you  have  brought  me! 
[188] 


Stratton  TKHater. 

"O  many  's  the  sweet  word,  Lord  Sands, 

You  've  spoken  oft  to  me; 
But  all  that  I  have  from  you  to-day 

Is  the  rain  on  my  body. 

"  And  many  's  the  good  gift,  Lord  Sands, 

You  've  promised  oft  to  me; 
But  the  gift  of  yours  I  keep  to-da> 

Is  the  babe  in  my  body. 

"  O  it 's  not  in  any  earthly  bed 

That  first  my  babe  I  '11  see; 
For  I  have  brought  my  body  here 

That  the  flood  may  cover  me." 

His  face  was  close  against  her  face, 

His  hands  of  hers  were  fain: 
O  her  wet  cheeks  were  hot  with  tears, 

Her  wet  hands  cold  with  rain. 

"They  told  me  you  were  dead,  Janet, — 

How  could  I  guess  the  lie  ?  " 
"They  told  me  you  were  false,  Lord  Sands,- 

What  could  I  do  but  die  ?" 

"Now  keep  you  well,  my  brother  Giles, — 
Through  you  I  deemed  her  dead! 

As  wan  as  your  towers  seem  to-day, 
To-morrow  they  '11  be  red. 

"  Look  down,  look  down,  my  false  mother, 

That  bade  me  not  to  grieve: 
You  '11  look  up  when  our  marriage  fires 

Are  lit  to-morrow  eve: 
[189] 


Stratton  XKHater. 

"  O  more  than  one  and  more  than  two 

The  sorrow  of  this  shall  see: 
But  it 's  to-morrow,  love,  for  them, — 

To-day  's  for  thee  and  me." 

He  's  drawn  her  face  between  his  hands 

And  her  pale  mouth  to  his: 
No  bird  that  was  so  still  that  day 

Chirps  sweeter  than  his  kiss. 

The  flood  was  creeping  round  their  feet. 

"O  Janet,  come  away! 
The  hall  is  warm  for  the  marriage-rite, 

The  bed  for  the  birthday." 

"Nay,  but  I  hear  your  mother  cry, 

'Go  bring  this  bride  to  bed! 
And  would  she  christen  her  babe  unborn, 

So  wet  she  comes  to  wed  ? ' 

" I'll  be  your  wife  to  cross  your  door 

And  meet  your  mother's  e'e. 
We  plighted  troth  to  wed  i'  the  kirk, 

And  it 's  there  you  '11  wed  with  me." 

He  's  ta'en  her  by  the  short  girdle 

And  by  the  dripping  sleeve: 
"Go  fetch  Sir  Jock  my  mother's  priest, — 

You  '11  ask  of  him  no  leave. 

"  O  it 's  one  half-hour  to  reach  the  kirk 
And  one  for  the  marriage-rite ; 

And  kirk  and  castle  and  castle-lands 
Shall  be  our  babe's  to-night." 
[190] 


Stratton  Mater, 

"The  flood's  in  the  kirkyard,  Lord  Sands, 

And  round  the  belfry-stair." 
"  I  bade  you  fetch  the  priest,"  he  said, 

"Myself  shall  bring  him  there. 

"  It 's  for  the  lilt  of  wedding  bells 

We  '11  have  the  hail  to  pour, 
And  for  the  clink  of  bridle-reins 

The  plashing  of  the  oar." 

Beneath  them  on  the  nether  hill 

A  boat  was  floating  wide: 
Lord  Sands  swam  out  and  caught  the  oars 

And  rowed  to  the  hill-side. 

He  's  wrapped  her  in  a  green  mantle 

And  set  her  softly  in ; 
Her  hair  was  wet  upon  her  face, 

Her  face  was  grey  and  thin; 
And  "Oh  !"  she  said,  "lie  still,  my  babe, 

It 's  out  you  must  not  win!  " 

But  woe  's  my  heart  for  Father  John 

As  hard  as  he  might  pray, 
There  seemed  no  help  but  Noah's  ark 

Or  Jonah's  fish  that  day. 

The  first  strokes  that  the  oars  struck 

Were  over  the  broad  leas; 
The  next  strokes  that  the  oars  struck 

They  pushed  beneath  the  trees; 

The  last  stroke  that  the  oars  struck, 
The  good  boat's  head  was  met, 

And  there  the  gate  of  the  kirkyard 
Stood  like  a  ferry-gate. 


Stratton  Heater. 

He  's  set  his  hand  upon  the  bar 

And  lightly  leaped  within : 
He  's  lifted  her  to  his  left  shoulder, 

Her  knees  beside  his  chin. 

The  graves  lay  deep  beneath  the  flood 

Under  the  rain  alone; 
And  when  the  foot-stone  made  him  slip, 

He  held  by  the  head-stone. 

The  empty  boat  thrawed  i'  the  wind, 

Against  the  postern  tied. 
"  Hold  still,  you  've  brought  my  love  with  me, 

You  shall  take  back  my  bride." 

But  woe  's  my  heart  for  Father  John 

And  the  saints  he  clamoured  to! 
There  's  never  a  saint  but  Christopher 

Might  hale  such  buttocks  through! 

And  "Oh!"  she  said,  "on  men's  shoulders 

I  well  had  thought  to  wend, 
And  well  to  travel  with  a  priest, 

But  not  to  have  cared  or  ken'd. 

"  And  oh !  "  she  said,  "it  's  well  this  way 

That  I  thought  to  have  fared, — 
Not  to  have  lighted  at  the  kirk 

But  stopped  in  the  kirkyard. 

"  For  it  's  oh  and  oh  I  prayed  to  God, 

Whose  rest  1  hoped  to  win, 
That  when  to-night  at  your  board-head 

You  'd  bid  the  feast  begin, 
This  water  past  your  window-sill 

Might  bear  my  body  in." 
[192] 


Stratton  TKHater. 

Now  make  the  white  bed  warm  and  soft 

And  greet  the  merry  morn. 
The  night  the  mother  should  have  died, 

The  young  son  shall  be  born. 


VOL.I.— i3.  [193] 


INTRODUCTION  TO  "THE  STAFF  AND 
SCRIP." 

IN  1849  Rossetti  writes  to  his  brother  that  he  has  bought 
a  translation,  in  two  volumes,  of  the  Gesta  Romano- 
rum,  a  book  he  had  long  wished  to  possess.  He  adds: 
"I  was,  however,  rather  disappointed,  having  expected 
to  find  lots  of  glorious  stories  for  poems.  Four  or  five 
good  ones  there  are,  one  of  which  (which  I  have  entitled 
The  Scrip  and  Staff)  I  have  considerably  altered,  and  en- 
close for  your  opinion,  together  with  another  plot  of  my 
own  devising.  Both  of  these  I  contemplate  versifying 
when  free  from  existing  nightmares." 

The  poem  finally  appeared  in  The  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge Magazine  under  the  title  The  Staff  and  Scrip. 
Canon  Dixon  says  of  it  that,  in  his  judgment,  it  is  "the 
finest  of  all  Rossetti's  poems,  and  one  of  the  most  glori- 
ous writings  in  the  language.  It  exhibits  in  flawless 
perfection  the  gift  that  he  had  above  all  other  writers  — 
absolute  beauty  and  pure  action," 


[194] 


THE  STAFF  AND  SCRIP.1 

"WHO  rules2  these  lands  ?  "  the  Pilgrim  said. 

"Stranger,  Queen  Blanchelys." 
"And  who  has  thus  harried  them  ?"  he  said. 

"  It  was  Duke  Luke  did  this: 
God's  ban  be  his!  " 

The  Pilgrim  said :  "Where  is  your  house  ? 

I  '11  rest  there,  with  your  will." 
"  You  've  but  to  climb  these  blackened  boughs 

And  you  '11  see  it  over  the  hill, 
For  it  burns  still." 

"Which  road,  to  seek  your  Queen  ?"  said  he. 

"Nay,  nay,  but  with  some  wound 
You  '11  fly  back  hither,  it  may  be, 

And  by  your  blood  i'  the  ground 
My  place  be  found." 

"Friend,  stay  in  peace.     God  keep  your  head, 

And  mine,  where  I  will  go; 
For  He  is  here  and  there,"  he  said. 

He  passed  the  hill-side,  slow, 
And  stood  below. 

The  Queen  sat  idle  by  her  loom: 

She  heard  the  arras  stir, 
And  looked  up  sadly:  through  the  room 

The  sweetness  sickened  her 
Of  musk  and  myrrh. 


Staff  anb  Scrip, 


Her  women,  standing  two  and  two, 

In  silence  combed  the  fleece. 
The  Pilgrim  said,  "  Peace  be  with  you, 

Lady  "  ;  and  bent  his  knees. 
She  answered,  "Peace." 

Her  eyes  were  like  the  wave  within; 

Like  water-reeds  the  poise 
Of  her  soft  body,  dainty  thin  ; 

And  like  the  water's  noise 
Her  plaintive  voice. 

For  him,  the  stream  had  never  well'd 

In  desert  tracks  malign 
So  sweet  ;  nor  had  he  ever  felt 

So  faint  in  the  sunshine 
Of  Palestine. 

Right  so,  he  knew  that  he  saw  weep 
Each  night  through  every  dream  3 

The  Queen's  own  face,  confused  in  sleep 
With  visages  supreme 
Not  known  to  him. 

"Lady,"  he  said,  "your  lands  lie  burnt 

And  waste  :  to  meet  your  foe 
All  fear:  this  I  have  seen  and  learnt. 

Say  that  it  shall  be  so, 
And  I  will  go." 

She  gazed  at  him.     "  Your  cause  is  just, 

For  I  have  heard  the  same," 
He  said:  "  God's  strength  shall  be  my  trust. 
Fall  it  to  good  or  grame, 
Tis  in  His  name." 
[196] 


Staff  ant)  Scrip. 


"  Sir,  you  are  thanked.     My  cause  is  dead. 

Why  should  you  toil  to  break 
A  grave,  and  fall  therein  ?  "  she  said. 

He  did  not  pause  but  spake: 
"  For  my  vow's  sake." 

"Can  such  vows  be,  Sir  —  to  God's  ear, 
Not  to  God's  will  ?"     "  My  vow 

Remains:  God  heard  me  there  as  here," 
He  said  with  reverent  brow,* 
"  Both  then  and  now." 

They  gazed  together,  he  and  she, 

The  minute  while  he  spoke; 
And  when  he  ceased,  she  suddenly 

Looked  round  upon  her  folk 
As  though  she  woke. 

"  Fight,  Sir,"  she  said;  "  my  prayers  in  pain 

Shall  be  your  fellowship." 
He  whispered  one  among  her  train,  — 

"  To-morrow  bid  her  keep  5 
This  staff  and  scrip." 

She  sent  him  a  sharp  sword,  whose  belt 

About  his  body  there 
As  sweet  as  her  own  arms  he  felt. 

He  kissed  its  blade,  all  bare, 
Instead  of  her. 

She  sent  him  a  green  banner  wrought 

With  one  white  lily  stem, 
To  bind  his  lance  with  when  he  fought. 

He  writ  upon  the  same 
And  kissed  her  name. 


Staff  anfc  Scrip* 


She  sent  him  a  white  shield,  whereon 
She  bade  that  he  should  trace 

His  will.     He  blent  fair  hues  that  shone, 
And  in  a  golden  space 
He  kissed  her  face. 

Born  of  the  day  that  died,  that  eve  6 

Now  dying  sank  to  rest; 
As  he,  in  likewise  taking  leave, 

Once  with  a  heaving  breast 
Looked  to  the  west. 

And  there  the  sunset  skies  unseal'd,1 

Like  lands  he  never  knew, 
Beyond  to-morrow's  battle-field 

Lay  open  out  of  view 
To  ride  into. 

Next  day  till  dark  the  women  pray  'd: 

Nor  any  might  know  there 
How  the  fight  went:  the  Queen  has  bade 

That  there  do  come  to  her 
No  messenger. 

The  Queen  is  pale,  her  maidens  ail;8 

And  to  the  organ-tones 
They  sing  but  faintly,  who  sang  well 

The  matin-orisons, 

The  lauds  and  nones. 

Lo,  Father,  is  thine  ear  inclin'd, 
And  hath  thine  angel  passed  ? 
For  these  thy  watchers  now  are  blind 
With  vigil,  and  at  last 
Dizzy  with  fast. 
[198] 


Staff  anfc  Scrip. 


Weak  now  to  them  the  voice  o'  the  priest 

As  any  trance  affords  ; 
And  when  each  anthem  failed  and  ceas'd, 

It  seemed  that  the  last  chords 
Still  sang  the  words. 

"  Oh  what  is  the  light  that  shines  so  red  ? 

T  is  long  since  the  sun  set  "  ; 
Quoth  the  youngest  to  the  eldest  maid; 

"  T  was  dim  but  now,  and  yet 
The  light  is  great." 

Quoth  the  other:  "  '  T  is  our  sight  is  dazed 

That  we  see  flame  i'  the  air." 
But  the  Queen  held  her  brows  and  gazed, 

And  said,  "It  is  the  glare 
Of  torches  there." 

"Oh  what  are  the  sounds  that  rise  and  spread  ? 

All  day  it  was  so  still  "  ; 
Quoth  the  youngest  to  the  eldest  maid: 

"Unto  the  furthest  hill 
The  air  they  fill." 

Quoth  the  other:  "  T  is  our  sense  is  blurr'd 

With  all  the  chants  gone  by." 
But  the  Queen  held  her  breath  and  heard,9 

And  said,  "  It  is  the  cry 
Of  Victory." 

The  first  of  all  the  rout  was  sound, 

The  next  were  dust  and  flame, 
And  then  the  horses  shook  the  ground: 
And  in  the  thick  of  them 
A  still  band  came. 
[199] 


Staff  anfc  Scrip, 


"Oh  what  do  ye  bring  out  of  the  fight, 
Thus  hid  beneath  these  boughs?" 

"  Thy  conquering  guest  returns  to-night, 
And  yet  shall  not  carouse, 
Queen,  in  thy  house." 

"  Uncover  ye  his  face,"  she  said. 

"  O  changed  in  little  space!  " 
She  cried,  "O  pale  that  was  so  red! 

O  God,  O  God  of  grace! 
Cover  his  face." 

His  sword  was  broken  in  his  hand 
Where  he  had  kissed  the  blade. 

"  O  soft  steel  that  could  not  withstand! 
O  my  hard  heart  unstayed,10 
That  prayed  and  prayed  !  " 

His  bloodied  banner  crossed  his  mouth 
Where  he  had  kissed  her  name. 

"O  east,  and  west,  and  north,  and  south, 
Fair  flew  my  web,  for  shame,11 
To  guide  Death's  aim!" 

The  tints  were  shredded  from  his  shield 
Where  he  had  kissed  her  face. 

"Oh,  of  all  gifts  that  I  could  yield, 
Death  only  keeps  its  place, 
My  gift  and  grace!  " 

Then  stepped  a  damsel  to  her  side, 
And  spoke,  and  needs  must  weep: 

"  For  his  sake,  lady,  if  he  died, 
He  prayed  of  thee  to  keep 
This  staff  and  scrip." 

[200] 


Staff  anfc  Scrip, 


That  night  they  hung  above  her  bed, 

Till  morning  wet  with  tears. 
Year  after  year  above  her  head 

Her  bed  his  token  wears, 
Five  years,  ten  years. 

That  night  the  passion  of  her  grief 
Shook  them  as  there  they  hung. 

Each  year  the  wind  that  shed  the  leaf 
Shook  them  and  in  its  tongue 
A  message  flung. 

And  once  she  woke  with  a  clear  mind12 

That  letters  writ  to  calm 
Her  soul  lay  in  the  scrip;  to  find13 

Only  a  torpid  balm14 
And  dust  of  palm. 

They  shook  far  off  with  palace  sport 
When  joust  and  dance  were  rife  ; 

And  the  hunt  shook  them  from  the  court; 
For  hers,  in  peace  or  strife, 
Was  a  Queen's  life. 

A  Queen's  death  now:  as  now  they  shake 

To  gusts  in  chapel  dim,  —  15 
Hung  where  she  sleeps,  not  seen  to  wake, 

(Carved  lovely  white  and  slim), 
With  them  by  him. 

Stand  up  to-day,  still  armed,  with  her, 
Good  knight,  before  His  brow 

Who  then  as  now  was  here  and  there, 
Who  had  in  mind  thy  vow 
Then  even  as  now. 

[201] 


Staff  ant>  Scrip. 


The  lists  are  set  in  Heaven  to-day, 

The  bright  pavilions  shine; 
Fair  hangs  thy  shield,  and  none  gainsay 

The  trumpets  sound  in  sign 
That  she  is  thine. 

Not  tithed  with  days'  and  years'  decease 
He  pays  thy  wage  He  owed, 

But  with  imperishable  peace18 
Here  in  His  own  abode, 
Thy  jealous  God. 


[202] 


INTRODUCTION  TO  "SISTER  HELEN." 

WHAT  Rossetti  termed  his  "ghastly  ballad"  of 
Sister  Helen  was  written  in  1851  or  1852,  and 
first  printed  in  the  English  issue  of  a  German  maga- 
zine, named  The  Dusseldorf  Artists'  Annual.  Rossetti 
signed  it  with  the  initials  H.  H.  H.,  intending  thereby 
to  signify  "the  extreme  hardness  of  his  style,"  certain 
people  having  made  that  criticism  —  either  from  per- 
versity or  complete  inanity. 

The  poem  is  based  upon  an  old  superstition  to  the 
effect  that  by  burning  the  waxen  image  of  any  person 
whom  you  may  wish  to  injure,  that  person  is  forced  to 
die  in  torment. 

Like  most  of  Rossetti's  essays  in  ballad  form,  Sister 
Helen  is  much  too  ornate  and  charged  with  hidden 
meanings  to  be  classed  with  the  old  simple  ballads  of 
the  people  by  which  the  word  "ballad"  has  gained  its 
direct  meaning  for  us.  But  its  emotional  fervour  and 
pictorial  phraseology,  together  with  the  romantic  spirit 
investing  it,  make  it  a  wonderful  performance  of  its 
own  kind,  which  has  neither  prototype  nor  counterpart 
in  our  literature.  It  was  revised  for  the  volume  of  1870, 
and  fresh  additions  and  revisions  were  made  in  1880, 
much  to  the  satisfaction  of  its  author,  who,  at  that  period 
of  his  life,  was  taking  his  work  with  extreme  —  almost 
extravagant  —  seriousness.  He  wrote  to  Hall  Caine: 

"  You  will  be  horror-struck  to  hear  that  the  first  main 
addition  to  this  poem  was  made  by  me  only  a  few  days 

[203] 


•flntrofcuctlon  to  "Sister  Ibelen." 

ago! — eight  stanzas  (six  together,  and  two  scattered 
ones)  involving  a  new  incident  !  !  Your  hair  is  on  end, 
I  know,  but  if  you  heard  the  stanzas,  they  would  smooth 
if  not  curl  it.  The  gain  is  immense."  The  six  con- 
secutive stanzas  here  referred  to  start  from  the  line : 

A  lady 's  here,  by  a  dark  steed  brought. 

The  two  "scattered"  stanzas  inserted  are  the  one  be- 
ginning: 

Three  days  ago  on  his  marriage  morn, 

and  the  one  beginning: 

Flank  to  flank  are  the  three  steeds  gone. 

Three  or  four  minor  changes  also  were  made  in  the 
phraseology. 


[204] 


SISTER  HELEN. 

(1853-80.) 

"  WHY  did  you  melt  your  waxen  man, 

Sister  Helen  ? 

To-day  is  the  third  since  you  began." 

"  The  time  was  long,  yet  the  time  ran, 

Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Three  days  to-day,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 


"  But  if  you  have  done  your  work  aright, 

Sister  Helen, 

You  '11  let  me  play,  for  you  said  1  might." 
"Be  very  still  in  your  play  to-night, 

Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Third  night,  to-night,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 


"You  said  it  must  melt  ere  vesper-bell, 

Sister  Helen; 

If  now  it  be  molten,  all  is  well." 
"  Even  so, —  nay,  peace!  you  cannot  tell, 

Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
0  what  is  this,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?) 
[205] 


Sister  Ibelen. 

"Oh,  the  waxen  knave  was  plump  to-day, 

Sister  Helen; 

How  like  dead  folk  he  has  dropped  away!  " 
"Nay  now,  of  the  dead  what  can  you  say, 

Little  brother  ?  " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  of  the  dead,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?) 


"  See,  see,  the  sunken  pile  of  wood, 

Sister  Helen, 

Shines  through  the  thinned  wax  red  as  blood  !  " 
"Nay  now,  when  looked  you  yet  on  blood, 

Little  brother  ?  " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
How  pale  she  is,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !  ) 


"  Now  close  your  eyes,  for  they  're  sick  and  sore, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  I  '11  play  without  the  gallery  door." 

"  Aye,  let  me  rest, — I  '11  lie  on  the  floor, 

Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

What  rest  to-night,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  .? ) 


"  Here  high  up  in  the  balcony, 

Sister  Helen, 

The  moon  flies  face  to  face  with  me." 
"  Aye,  look  and  say  whatever  you  see, 

Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

What  sight  to-night,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?  ) 
[206] 


Slater  t>eien. 

"Oh,  the  waxen  knave  was  plump  to-day, 

Sister  Helen; 

How  like  dead  folk  he  has  dropped  away! " 

"  Nay  now,  of  the  dead  what  can  you  say, 

Little  brother?" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

What  of  the  dead,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?) 


"  See,  see,  the  sunken  pile  of  wood, 

Sister  Helen, 

Shines  through  the  thinned  wax  red  as  blood  ! " 
"  Nay  now,  when  looked  you  yet  on  blood, 

Little  brother?" 

Sketch  for  "(ftit^H&ktfh' Mother, 
How  pale  she  is,  betw&WW%>"b*,i  Hftmt  ' ) 


"  Now  do**-  your  eyes,  for  they  re  sick  and  sore, 

•  Helen, 

And  !  '11  play  without  the  i.'.iilrrv  door." 
"  Aye.  let  me  rest, — i  U  Jie  on  the  floor. 

Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  rest  to-night,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ? ) 


"  Here  high  up  in  the  balcony, 

Sister  Helen, 

The  moon  flies  face  to  face  with  me." 
"  Aye,  look  and  say  whatever  you  see, 

Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  sight  to-night,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ? ) 
[206] 


Sister  1bden. 

"  Outside  it 's  merry  in  the  wind's  wake, 

Sister  Helen ; 

In  the  shaken  trees  the  chill  stars  shake." 

"  Hush,  heard  you  a  horse-tread,  as  you  spake, 

Little  brother  ?  " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

What  sound  to-night,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ? ) 


"I  hear  a  horse-tread,  and  I  see, 

Sister  Helen, 

Three  horsemen  that  ride  terribly." 

"  Little  brother,  whence  come  the  three, 

Little  brother?" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Whence  should  they  come,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?) 


"  They  come  by  the  hill- verge  from  Boyne  Bar, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  one  draws  nigh,  but  two  are  afar." 

"  Look,  look,  do  you  know  them  who  they  are, 

Little  brother  ?  " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Who  should  they  be,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ? ) 


"  Oh,  it 's  Keith  of  Eastholm  rides  so  last, 

Sister  Helen, 

For  I  know  the  white  mane  on  the  blast." 
"  The  hour  has  come,  has  come  at  last, 

Little  brother  ! " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Her  hour  at  last,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !  ) 
[207] 


Sister  Ibeleit 

"  He  has  made  a  sign  and  called  Halloo! 

Sister  Helen, 

And  he  says  that  he  would  speak  with  you." 
"Oh  tell  him  I  fear  the  frozen  dew, 

Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Why  laughs  she  thus,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ? ) 


"  The  wind  is  loud,  but  I  hear  him  cry, 

Sister  Helen, 

That  Keith  of  Ewern  's  like  to  die." 

"  And  he  and  thou,  and  thou  and  I, 

Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

And  they  and  we,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 


"  Three  days  ago,  on  his  marriage-morn, 

Sister  Helen, 

He  sickened,  and  lies  since  then  forlorn." 

"  For  bridegroom's  side  is  the  bride  a  thorn, 

Little  brother  ?  " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Cold  bridal  cheer,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ! ) 


"Three  days  and  nights  he  has  lain  abed,1 

Sister  Helen, 

And  he  prays  in  torment  to  be  dead." 
"The  thing  may  chance,  if  he  have  prayed, 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
If  he  have  prayed,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 
[208] 


Slater  Ibelen. 

"  But  he  has  not  ceased  to  cry  to-day, 

Sister  Helen, 

That  you  should  take  your  curse  away." 

"  My  prayer  was  heard, — he  need  but  pray, 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Shall  God  not  hear,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?) 


"  But  he  says,  till  you  take  back  your  ban, 

Sister  Helen, 

His  soul  would  pass,  yet  never  can." 

"Nay  then,  shall  I  slay  a  living  man, 

Little  brother  ?  " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

A  living  soul,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 


"  But  he  calls  for  ever  on  your  name, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  says  that  he  melts  before  a  flame." 
"  My  heart  for  his  pleasure  fared  the  same, 

Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Fire  at  the  heart,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !) 


"Here  's  Keith  ol  Westholm  riding  fast, 

Sister  Helen, 

For  I  know  the  white  plume  on  the  blast." 

"The  hour,  the  sweet  hour  I  forecast, 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Is  the  hour  sweet,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?) 

VOL.  I.— 19. 

[209] 


Sister  Ibelen. 

"He  stops  to  speak,  and  he  stills  his  horse, 

Sister  Helen ; 

But  his  words  are  drowned  in  the  wind's  course." 

"Nay  hear,  nay  hear,  you  must  hear  perforce, 

Little  brother! " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

What  -word  now  heard,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?) 


"  O  he  says  that  Keith  of  Ewern's  cry, 

Sister  Helen, 

Is  ever  to  see  you  ere  he  die." 
"In  all  that  his  soul  sees,  there  am  I,2 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The  soul's  one  sight,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !) 3 


"  He  sends  a  ring  and  a  broken  coin, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  bids  you  mind  the  banks  of  Boyne." 

"What  else  he  broke  will  he  ever  join, 

Little  brother?" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother f 

No,  never  joined,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /)  4 


"  He  yields  you  these  and  craves  full  fain, 

Sister  Helen, 

You  pardon  him  in  his  mortal  pain." 
"  What  else  he  took  will  he  give  again, 

Little  brother  ?  " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Not  twice  to  give,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !) 8 

[210] 


Sister  Ibelen, 

"  He  calls  your  name  in  an  agony, 

Sister  Helen , 

That  even  dead  Love  must  weep  to  see." 
"Hate,  born  of  Love,  is  blind  as  he, 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Love  turned  to  hate,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !} 


"  Oh  it 's  Keith  of  Keith  now  that  rides  fast, 

Sister  Helen, 

For  I  know  the  white  hair  on  the  blast." 
"The  short,  short  hour  will  soon  be  past, 

Little  brother  !" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Will  soon  be  past,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 


"  He  looks  at  me  and  he  tries  to  speak, 

Sister  Helen, 

But  oh!  his  voice  is  sad  and  weak!  " 
"What  here  should  the  mighty  Baron  seek, 

Little  Brother  ?  " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Is  this  the  end,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?) 


"Oh,  his  son  still  cries,  if  you  forgive, 

Sister  Helen, 

The  body  dies  but  the  soul  shall  live." 

"  Fire  shall  forgive  me  as  I  forgive, 

Little  brother!  " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

As  she  forgives,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 

[211] 


Sister  Ibelen. 

"Oh  he  prays  you,  as  his  heart  would  rive, 

Sister  Helen, 

To  save  his  dear  son's  soul  alive." 

"  Fire  cannot  slay  it,  it  shall  thrive, 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Alas,  alas,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 


"  He  cries  to  you,  kneeling  in  the  road, 

Sister  Helen, 

To  go  with  him  for  the  love  of  God! " 

"The  way  is  long  to  his  son's  abode, 

Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

The  way  is  long,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 


"  A  lady  's  here,  by  a  dark  steed  brought, 

Sister  Helen, 

So  darkly  clad,  I  saw  her  not." 

"  See  her  now  or  never  see  aught, 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

What  more  to  see,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?) 


"Her  hood  falls  back,  and  the  moon  shines  fair, 

Sister  Helen, 

On  the  Lady  of  Ewern's  golden  hair." 
"  Blest  hour  of  my  power  and  her  despair, 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Hour  blest  and  bann'd,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

[212] 


Sister  Ibeleit 

"Pale,  pale  her  cheeks,  that  in  pride  did  glow, 

Sister  Helen, 

'Neath  the  bridal-wreath  three  days  ago." 

"  One  morn  for  pride  and  three  days  for  woe, 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Three  days,  three  nights,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!)* 


"Her  clasped  hands  stretch  from  her  bending  head, 

Sister  Helen; 

With  the  loud  wind's  wail  her  sobs  are  wed." 

"What  wedding-strains  hath  her  bridal-bed, 

Little  brother  ?  " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

What  strain  but  death's  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 


"She  may  not  speak,  she  sinks  in  a  swoon, 

Sister  Helen, — 

She  lifts  her  lips  and  gasps  on  the  moon." 
"Oh!  might  I  but  hear  her  soul's  blithe  tune, 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Her  -woe's  dumb  cry,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !) 


"  They  've  caught  her  to  Westholm's  saddle-bow, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  her  moonlit  hair  gleams  white  in  its  flow." 
"  Let  it  turn  whiter  than  winter  snow, 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Woe-withered  gold,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !) 
[213] 


Sister  Ibelen, 

"O  sister  Helen,  you  heard  the  bell, 

Sister  Helen! 

More  loud  than  the  vesper-chime  it  fell." 
"No  vesper-chime,  but  a  dying  knell, 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
His  dying  knell,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !) 


"Alas!  but  I  fear  the  heavy  sound, 

Sister  Helen; 

Is  it  in  the  sky  or  in  the  ground  ?  " 

"  Say,  have  they  turned  their  horses  round, 

Little  brother  ?  " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

What  would  she  more,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?) 


"They  have  raised  the  old  man  from  his  knee, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  they  ride  in  silence  hastily." 
"More  fast  the  naked  soul  doth  flee, 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The  naked  soul,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 


"  Flank  to  flank  are  the  three  steeds  gone, 

Sister  Helen, 

But  the  lady's  dark  steed  goes  alone." 
"And  lonely  her  bridegroom's  soul  hath  flown, 

Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The  lonely  ghost,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 
[214] 


Sister  Ibelen. 

"  Oh,  the  wind  is  sad  in  the  iron  chill, 

Sister  Helen. 

And  weary  and  sad  they  look  by  the  hill." 

"  But  he  and  I  are  sadder  still, 

Little  brother!" 
O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Most  sad  of  all,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 

"See,  see,  the  wax  has  dropped  from  its  place, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  the  flames  are  winning  up  apace!  " 

"Yet  here  they  burn  but  for  a  space! 

Little  brother! " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Here  for  a  space,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 

•'Ah!  what  white  thing  at  the  door  has  cross'd, 

Sister  Helen  ? 

Ah!  what  is  this  that  sighs  in  the  frost  ?" 
"  A  soul  that 's  lost  as  mine  is  lost, 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Lost,  lost,  all  lost,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !} 


[215] 


ENGLISH  MAY.1 


WOULD  God  your  health  were  as  this  month  of  May 
Should  be,  were  this  not  England,  —  and  your  face 
Abroad,  to  give  the  gracious  sunshine  grace 

And  laugh  beneath  the  budding  hawthorn-spray. 

But  here  the  hedgerows  pine  from  green  to  grey 
While  yet  May's  lyre  is  tuning,  and  her  song 
Is  weak  in  shade  that  should  in  sun  be  strong; 

And  your  pulse  springs  not  to  so  faint  a  lay. 

If  in  my  life  be  breath  of  Italy, 

Would  God  that  I  might  yield  it  all  to  you! 

So  when  such  grafted  warmth  had  burgeoned  through 
The  languor  of  your  Maytime's  hawthorn-tree, 
My  spirit  at  rest  should  walk  unseen  and  see 

The  garland  of  your  beauty  bloom  anew. 


[216] 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  BIRD. 

SHE  fluted  with  her  mouth  as  when  one  sips, 
And  gently  waved  her  golden  head,  inclin'd 
Outside  his  cage  close  to  the  window-blind; 

Till  her  fond  bird,  with  little  turns  and  dips, 

Piped  low  to  her  of  sweet  companionships. 
And  when  he  made  an  end,  some  seed  took  she 
And  fed  him  from  her  tongue,  which  rosily 

Peeped  as  a  piercing  bud  between  her  lips. 

And  like  the  child  in  Chaucer,  on  whose  tongue 
The  blessed  Mary  laid,  when  he  was  dead, 

A  grain, —  who  straightway  praised  her  name  in  song: 
Even  so,  when  she,  a  little  lightly  red, 

Now  turned  on  me  and  laughed,  I  heard  the  throng 
Of  inner  voices  praise  her  golden  head. 


[217] 


THE  PASSOVER  IN  THE  HOLY  FAMILY.1 

(For  a  Drawing.) 

(•855.) 

HERE  meet  together  the  prefiguring  day 

And  day  prefigured.     "  Eating,  thou  shalt  stand, 
Feet  shod,  loins  girt,  thy  road-staff  in  thine  hand, 

With  blood-stained  door  and  lintel,"2  —  did  God  say 

By  Moses'  mouth  in  ages  passed  away. 
And  now,  where  this  poor  household  doth  comprise 
At  Paschal- Feast  two  kindred  families, — 

Lo!  the  slain  lamb  confronts  the  Lamb  to  slay. 

The  pyre  is  piled.     What  agony's  crown  attained, 
What  shadow  of  Death  the  Boy's  fair  brow  subdues 

Who  holds  that  blood  wherewith  the  porch  is  stained 
By  Zachary  the  priest  ?    John  binds  the  shoes 
He  deemed  himself  not  worthy  to  unloose; 

And  Mary  culls  the  bitter  herbs  ordained. 


[218] 


ON  THE  SITE  OF  A  MULBERRY-TREE1; 

Planted  by  Wm.  Shakspeare;  felled  by  Rev.  F.  Gastrell. 

(1857.) 

THIS  tree,  here  fall'n,  no  common  birth  or  death 
Shared  with  its  kind.     The  world's  enfranchised  son, 
Who  found  the  trees  of  Life  and  Knowledge  one, 

Here  set  it,  frailer  than  his  laurel-wreath. 

Shall  not  the  wretch  whose  hand  it  fell  beneath 
Rank  also  singly  —  the  supreme  unhung  ? 
Lo!  Sheppard,  Turpin,  pleading  with  black  tongue 

This  viler  thief's  unsuffocated  breath! 

We  '11  search  thy  glossary,  Shakspeare!  whence  almost, 
And  whence  alone,  some  name  shall  be  reveal'd 
For  this  deaf  drudge,  to  whom  no  length  of  ears 
Sufficed  to  catch  the  music  of  the  spheres; 
Whose  soul  is  carrion  now, — too  mean  to  yield 
Some  Starveling's  ninth  allotment  of  a  ghost.1 


[219] 


A  NEW-YEAR'S   BURDEN. 

ALONG  the  grass  sweet  airs  are  blown 

Our  way  this  day  in  Spring. 
Of  all  the  songs  that  we  have  known 
Now  which  one  shall  we  sing  ? 

Not  that,  my  love,  ah  no! — 
Not  this,  my  love?  why,  so! — 
Yet  both  were  ours,  but  hours  will  come  and  go. 

The  grove  is  all  a  pale  frail  mist, 

The  new  year  sucks  the  sun. 
Of  all  the  kisses  that  we  kissed 
Now  which  shall  be  the  one  ? 

Not  that,  my  love,  ah  no! — 
Not  this,  my  love  ? — heigh-ho 
For  all  the  sweets  that  all  the  winds  can  blow! 

The  branches  cross  above  our  eyes, 

The  skies  are  in  a  net: 
And  what 's  the  thing  beneath  the  skies 
We  two  would  most  forget  ? 

Not  birth,  my  love,  no,  no, — 
Not  death,  my  love,  no,  no, — 
The  love  once  ours,  but  ours  long  hours  ago. 


[220] 


;*a 


A  NEW-YEAR'S  BURDEN. 

ALONG  the  grass  sweet  airs  are  blown 

Our  way  this  day  in  Spring. 
Of  all  the  songs  that  we  have  known 
Now  which  one  shall  we  sing  ? 

Not  that,  my  love,  ah  no! — 
Not  this,  my  love  ?  why,  so ! — 
Yet  both  were  ours,  but  hours  will  come  and  go. 

The  grove  is  all  a  pate  frail  mist, 

The  new  ye:ir7V#p  Town. 
Of  ail  tbSkftclKjfa- j&ttirtMot  ixecuted,  1870. 

Now  which  shall  K*  the  one  ? 

Not  thai,  my  love,  ah  no!-— 

For  :Ui  the  sv  &t\  the  winds  can  blow! 

The  branches  cross  above  our  eyes, 

The  skies  are  in  a  net: 
And  what 's  the  thing  beneath  the  skies 
We  two  would  most  forget  ? 

.   Not  birth,  my  love,  no,  no, — 

Not  death,  my  love,  no,  no, — 

The  love  once  ours,  but  ours  long  hours  ago. 


[220] 


?? 

41        -»  T      l 


PENUMBRA. 

I  DID  not  look  upon  her  eyes, 
(Though  scarcely  seen,  with  no  surprise, 
'Mid  many  eyes  a  single  look,) 
Because  they  should  not  gaze  rebuke, 
At  night,  from  stars  in  sky  and  brook. 

I  did  not  take  her  by  the  hand, 

(Though  little  was  to  understand 

From  touch  of  hand  all  friends  might  take,) 

Because  it  should  not  prove  a  flake 

Burnt  in  my  palm  to  boil  and  ache. 

I  did  not  listen  to  her  voice, 

(Though  none  had  noted,  where  at  choice 

All  might  rejoice  in  listening,) 

Because  no  such  a  thing  should  cling 

In  the  wood's  moan  at  evening. 

I  did  not  cross  her  shadow  once, 
(Though  from  the  hollow  west  the  sun's 
Last  shadow  runs  along  so  far,) 
Because  in  June  it  should  not  bar 
My  ways,  at  noon  when  fevers  are. 

They  told  me  she  was  sad  that  day, 
(Though  wherefore  tell  what  love's  soothsay, 
Sooner  than  they,  did  register  ?) 
And  my  heart  leapt  and  wept  to  her, 
And  yet  I  did  not  speak  nor  stir. 

[221] 


penumbra* 

So  shall  the  tongues  of  the  sea's  foam 
(Though  many  voices  therewith  come 
From  drowned  hope's  home  to  cry  to  me,) 
Bewail  one  hour  the  more,  when  sea 
And  wind  are  one  with  memory. 


[222] 


A  MATCH  WITH  THE  MOON. 

WEARY  already,  weary  miles  to-night 

1  walked  for  bed :  and  so,  to  get  some  ease, 
I  dogged  the  flying  moon  with  similes. 
And  like  a  wisp  she  doubled  on  my  sight 
In  ponds;  and  caught  in  tree-tops  like  a  kite 
And  in  a  globe  of  film  all  liquorish 
Swam  full-faced  like  a  silly  silver  fish ; — 
Last  like  a  bubble  shot  the  welkin's  height 
Where  my  road  turned,  and  got  behind  me,  and  sent 
My  wizened  shadow  craning  round  at  me, 
And  jeered,  "So,  step  the  measure, — one  two  three!" 
And  if  I  faced  on  her,  looked  innocent. 
But  just  at  parting,  halfway  down  a  dell, 
She  kissed  me  for  good-night.     So  you  '11  not  tell. 


[223] 


INTRODUCTION  TO  "'LOVE'S 
NOCTURN." 

F^OSSETTI  seems  to  have  suffered  many  pangs  of 
1  \  indecision  in  the  revision  of  this  poem  for  his  1870 
volume.  He  writes  to  his  brother  that  the  first  concep- 
tion of  the  poem  was  of  a  man  not  yet  in  love  who 
dreams  vaguely  of  a  woman  who  he  thinks  must  exist  for 
him.  This  is  not  so  happy  an  idea,  Rossetti  decides,  as 
to  refer  the  love  to  a  known  and  actual  woman.  One 
stanza  stood  in  the  way  of  the  new  interpretation  and 
was  cut  out.  The  opening,  which  had  been  criticised  as 
obscure,  was  changed,  and  Rossetti,  noting  the  changes, 
continues:  "I  have  also  added  three  new  stanzas  tow- 
ards the  close  of  this  poem,  to  develop  the  sudden  flight 
of  the  bogie  on  finding  another  bogie  by  the  girl's  bed, 
which  seemed  funkyish,  though  of  course  the  right 
thing  if  she  was  already  in  love."  One  very  charact- 
eristic alteration  deserves  mention.  "'Lamps  of  an 
auspicious  soul,'"  he  writes,  referring  to  the  fourth  line 
of  the  sixth  stanza,  "stood  in  my  last  correction  (made 
long  ago)  'pellucid,'  which  is  much  finer.  But  lately  in 
the  Ring  and  Book  I  came  on  pellucid  soul  applied  to 
Caponsacchi,  and  the  inevitable  charge  of  plagiarism 
struck  me  at  once  as  impending  whenever  my  poem 
should  be  printed."  In  the  present  edition  it  will  be 
seen  that  translucent  soul  solves  the  difficulty. 

Mr.   William  Rossetti   suggests  that  this  poem  was 
possibly  the  one  sent  in  response  to  Mr.  Norton's  invita- 

[224] 


Iftocturn. 

tion  to  Rossetti  to  contribute  to  the  Atlantic  Monthly, 
which  in  1857  was  just  starting  under  Lowell's  editor- 
ship. The  poem  that  was  sent  was  lost  on  the  way,  and 
though  subsequently  recovered  was  not  printed,  both 
Mr.  Norton  and  Lowell  finding  it  "foggy"  reading,  to 
use  Rossetti's  phrase. 


VOL.  i.— is.  [225] 


LOVE'S  NOCTURN. 

MASTER  of  the  murmuring  courts 
Where  the  shapes  of  sleep  convene!  — 

Lo!  my  spirit  here  exhorts 
All  the  powers  of  thy  demesne 
For  their  aid  to  woo  my  queen. 

What  reports 
Yield  thy  jealous  courts  unseen  ? 

Vaporous,  unaccountable. 

Dreamworld  lies  forlorn  of  light, 
Hollow  like  a  breathing  shell. 

Ah !  that  from  all  dreams  I  might 

Choose  one  dream  and  guide  its  flight! 
I  know  well 

What  her  sleep  should  tell  to-night. 

There  the  dreams  are  multitudes: 

Some  that  will  not  wait  for  sleep, 
Deep  within  the  August  woods; 

Some  that  hum  while  rest  may  steep 

Weary  labour  laid  a-heap; 
Interludes, 

Some,  of  grievous  moods  that  weep. 

Poet's  fancies  all  are  there: 

There  the  elf-girls  flood  with  wings 
Valleys  full  of  plaintive  air; 

There  breathe  perfumes ;  there  in  rings 
[226] 


's  flocturn* 


Whirl  the  foam-bewildered  springs; 

Siren  there 
Winds  her  dizzy  hair  and  sings. 

Thence  the  one  dream  mutually 

Dreamed  in  bridal  unison, 
Less  than  waking  ecstasy; 

Half-formed  visions  that  make  moan 

In  the  house  of  birth  alone; 
And  what  we 

At  death's  wicket  see,  unknown. 

But  for  mine  own  sleep,  it  lies 
In  one  gracious  form's  control, 

Fair  with  honourable  eyes, 
Lamps  of  a  translucent  soul: 
O  their  glance  is  loftiest  dole, 

Sweet  and  wise, 
Wherein  Love  descries  his  goal. 

Reft  of  her,  my  dreams  are  all 

Clammy  trance  that  fears  the  sky: 
Changing  footpaths  shift  and  fall; 

From  polluted  coverts  nigh, 

Miserable  phantoms  sigh; 
Quakes  the  pall, 

And  the  funeral  goes  by. 

Master,  is  it  soothly  said 

That,  as  echoes  of  man's  speech 
Far  in  secret  clefts  are  made, 
So  do  all  men's  bodies  reach 
Shadows  o'er  thy  sunken  beach,  — 

Shape  or  shade 

In  those  halls  pourtrayed  of  each  ? 
[227] 


IRocturn. 


Ah  !  might  I,  by  thy  good  grace 

Groping  in  the  windy  stair, 
(Darkness  and  the  breath  of  space 

Like  loud  waters  everywhere,) 

Meeting  mine  own  image  there 
Face  to  face, 

Send  it  from  that  place  to  her! 

Nay,  not  I  ;  but  oh  !  do  thou, 

Master,  from  thy  shadowkind 
Call  my  body's  phantom  now: 

Bid  it  bear  its  face  declin'd 

Till  its  flight  her  slumbers  find, 
And  her  brow 

Feel  its  presence  bow  like  wind. 

Where  in  groves  the  gracile  Spring 

Trembles,  with  mute  orison 
Confidently  strengthening, 

Water's  voice  and  wind's  as  one 

Shed  an  echo  in  the  sun. 
Soft  as  Spring, 

Master,  bid  it  sing  and  moan. 

Song  shall  tell  how  glad  and  strong 
Is  the  night  she  soothes  alway; 

Moan  shall  grieve  with  that  parched  tongue 
Of  the  brazen  hours  of  day  : 
Sounds  as  of  the  springtide  they, 

Moan  and  song, 
While  the  chill  months  long  for  May. 

Not  the  prayers  which  with  all  leave 
The  world's  fluent  woes  prefer,  — 
[228] 


love's  IRocturn, 

Not  the  praise  the  world  doth  give, 
Dulcet  fulsome  whisperer; — 
Let  it  yield  my  love  to  her, 

And  achieve 
Strength  that  shall  not  grieve  or  err. 

Wheresoe'er  my  dreams  befall, 
Both  at  night-watch,  (let  it  say,) 

And  where  round  the  sundial 
The  reluctant  hours  of  day, 
Heartless,  hopeless  of  their  way, 

Rest  and  call; — 
There  her  glance  doth  fall  and  stay. 

Suddenly  her  face  is  there : 

So  do  mounting  vapours  wreathe 
Subtle-scented  transports  where 

The  black  firwood  sets  its  teeth. 

Part  the  boughs  and  look  beneath, — 
Lilies  share 

Secret  waters  there,  and  breathe. 

Master,  bid  my  shadow  bend 

Whispering  thus  till  birth  of  light, 
Lest  new  shapes  that  sleep  may  send 

Scatter  all  its  work  to  flight;— 

Master,  master  of  the  night, 
Bid  it  spend 

Speech,  song,  prayer,  and  end  aright. 

Yet,  ah  me!  if  at  her  head 
There  another  phantom  lean 

Murmuring  o'er  the  fragrant  bed, — 
Ah!  and  if  my  spirit's  queen 
[229] 


%o\>e's  IRocturn. 

Smile  those  alien  prayers  between, — * 

Ah!  poor  shade! 
Shall  it  strive,  or  fade  unseen  ? 

How  should  love's  own  messenger 

Strive  with  love  and  be  love's  foe  ? 
Master,  nay!     If  thus,  in  her, 

Sleep  a  wedded  heart  should  show, — 

Silent  let  mine  image  go, 
Its  old  share 

Of  thy  spell-bound  air  to  know.2 

Like  a  vapour  wan  and  mute, 

Like  a  flame,  so  let  it  pass; 
One  low  sigh  across  her  lute, 
One  dull  breath  against  her  glass; 

And  to  my  sad  soul,  alas ! 
One  salute 

Cold  as  when  death's  foot  shall  pass. 

Then,  too,  let  all  hopes  of  mine, 

All  vain  hopes  by  night  and  day, 
Slowly  at  thy  summoning  sign 

Rise  up  pallid  and  obey. 

Dreams,  if  this  is  thus,  were  they: — 
Be  they  thine, 

And  to  dreamworld  pine  away.3 

Yet  from  old  time,  life,  not  death, 

Master,  in  thy  rule  is  rife : 
Lo!  through  thee,  with  mingling  breath, 
Adam  woke  beside  his  wife. 
O  Love  bring  me  so,  for  strife, 

Force  and  faith, 

Bring  me  so  not  death  but  life! 
[230] 


Xove's  IRocturn. 

Yea,  to  Love  himself  is  pour'd 
This  frail  song  of  hope  and  fear. 

Thou  art  Love,  of  one  accord 
With  kind  Sleep  to  bring  her  near, 
Still-eyed,  deep-eyed,  ah  how  dear! 

Master,  Lord, 
In  her  name  implor'd,  O  hear! 


[231] 


ON  CERTAIN  ELIZABETHAN  REVIVALS. 

O  RUFF-EMBASTIONED  vast  Elizabeth, 
Bush  to  these  bushel-bellied  casks  of  wine., 
Home-growth,  't  is  true,  but  rank  as  turpentine  — 

What  would  we  with  such  skittle-plays  at  death  ? 

Say,  must  we  watch  these  brawlers'  brandished  lathe, 
Or  to  their  reeking  wit  our  ears  incline, 
Because  all  Castaly  flowed  crystalline 

In  gentle  Shakspeare's  modulated  breath  ? 

What!  must  our  drama  with  the  rat-pit  vie, 
Nor  the  scene  close  while  one  is  left  to  kill  ? 
Shall  this  be  poetry  ?    And  thou — thou  man 
Of  blood,  thou  cannibalic  Caliban, 
What  shall  be  said  of  thee  ?    A  poet  ?  —  Fie! 
"An  honourable  murderer,  if  you  will." 


[232] 


PLIGHTED  PROMISE. 

IN  a  soft-complexioned  sky, 
Fleeting  rose  and  kindling  grey, 

Have  you  seen  Aurora  fly 

At  the  break  of  day  ? 
So  my  maiden,  so  my  plighted  may 

Blushing  cheek  and  gleaming  eye 
Lifts  to  look  my  way. 

Where  the  inmost  leaf  is  stirred 
With  the  heart-beat  of  the  grove, 

Have  you  heard  a  hidden  bird 

Cast  her  note  above  ? 
So  my  lady,  so  my  lovely  love, 

Echoing  Cupid's  prompted  word, 
Makes  a  tune  thereof. 

Have  you  seen,  at  heaven's  mid-height, 
In  the  moon-rack's  ebb  and  tide, 

Venus  leap  forth  burning  white, 

Dian  pale  and  hide  ? 
So  my  bright  breast-jewel,  so  my  bride, 

One  sweet  night,  when  fear  takes  flight, 
Shall  leap  against  my  side. 


[233] 


FIRST  LOVE  REMEMBERED. 

PEACE  in  her  chamber,  wheresoe'er 

It  be,  a  holy  place: 
The  thought  still  brings  my  soul  such  grace 

As  morning  meadows  wear. 

Whether  it  still  be  small  and  light, 

A  maid's  who  dreams  alone, 
As  from  her  orchard-gate  the  moon 

Its  ceiling  showed  at  night: 

Or  whether,  in  a  shadow  dense 

As  nuptial  hymns  invoke, 
Innocent  maidenhood  awoke 

To  married  innocence: 

There  still  the  thanks  unheard  await 
The  unconscious  gift  bequeathed: 

For  there  my  soul  this  hour  has  breathed 
An  air  inviolate. 


[234] 


SUDDEN  LIGHT. 

I  HAVE  been  here  before, 

But  when  or  how  I  cannot  tell: 

I  know  the  grass  beyond  the  door, 

The  sweet,  keen  smell, 
The  sighing  sound,  the  lights  around  the  shore. 

You  have  been  mine  before, — 
How  long  ago  I  may  not  know: 

But  just  when  at  that  swallow's  soar 

Your  neck  turned  so, 
Some  veil  did  fall,  —  I  knew  it  all  of  yore. 

Has  this  been  thus  before  ? l 

And  shall  not  thus  time's  eddying  flight 
Still  with  our  lives  our  love  restore 

In  death's  despite, 
And  day  and  night  yield  one  delight  once  more  ? 


[235] 


INTRODUCTION  TO  "EVEN  SO." 

COVENTRY  PATMORE,  commenting  upon  Rossetti's 
"  extraordinary  faculty  for  seeing  objects  in  such  a 
fierce  light  of  imagination  as  very  few  poets  have  been 
able  to  throw  upon  external  things,"  adds:  "He  can  be 
forgiven  for  spoiling  a  tender  lyric  by  a  stanza  such  as 
this,  which  seems  scratched  with  an  adamantine  pen 
upon  a  slab  of  agate : 

'  But  the  sea  stands  spread 
As  one  wall  with  the  flat  skies, 
Where  the  lean  black  craft,  like  flies, 

Seem  well-nigh  stagnated, 

Soon  to  drop  off  dead.' " 

The  stanza  referred  to  is  the  poetic  version  of  a  prose 
passage  in  a  letter  from  Rossetti  to  William  Allingham, 
written  in  1 854.  The  passage  —  describing  a  June  day  at 
Hastings  —  runs  as  follows: 

"There  are  dense  fogs  of  heat  here  now,  through 
which  sea  and  sky  loom  as  one  wall,  with  the  webbed 
craft  creeping  on  it  like  flies,  or  standing  there  as  if  they 
would  drop  off  dead.  I  wander  over  the  baked  cliffs, 
seeking  rest  and  finding  none." 


[236] 


EVEN  SO. 

So  it  is,  my  dear. 

All  such  things  touch  secret  strings 
For  heavy  hearts  to  hear. 
So  it  is,  my  dear. 

Very  like  indeed: 
Sea  and  sky,  afar,  on  high, 

Sand  and  strewn  seaweed, — 
Very  like  indeed. 

But  the  sea  stands  spread 
As  one  wall  with  the  flat  skies, 
Where  the  lean  black  craft  like  flies 

Seem  well-nigh  stagnated, 

Soon  to  drop  off  dead. 

Seemed  it  so  to  us 

When  I  was  thine  and  thou  wast  mine, 
And  all  these  things  were  thus, 
But  all  our  world  in  us  ? 

Could  we  be  so  now  ? 
Not  if  all  beneath  heaven's  pall 
Lay  dead  but  I  and  thou, 
Could  we  be  so  now! 


[237] 


THE  WOODSPURGE.1 

THE  wind  flapped  loose,  the  wind  was  still, 
Shaken  out  dead  from  tree  and  hill: 
I  had  walked  on  at  the  wind's  will, — 
I  sat  now,  for  the  wind  was  still. 

Between  my  knees  my  forehead  was, — 
My  lips,  drawn  in,  said  not  Alas! 
My  hair  was  over  in  the  grass, 
My  naked  ears  heard  the  day  pass. 

My  eyes,  wide  open,  had  the  run 

Of  some  ten  weeds  to  fix  upon; 

Among  those  few,  out  of  the  sun, 

The  woodspurge  flowered,  three  cups  in  one. 

From  perfect  grief  there  need  not  be 
Wisdom  or  even  memory: 
One  thing  then  learnt  remains  to  me, — 
The  woodspurge  has  a  cup  of  three. 


[238] 


THE  HONEYSUCKLE. 

I  PLUCKED  a  honeysuckle  where 
The  hedge  on  high  is  quick  with  thorn, 
And  climbing  for  the  prize,  was  torn, 

And  fouled  my  feet  in  quag-water; 
And  by  the  thorns  and  by  the  wind 
The  blossom  that  I  took  was  thinn'd, 

And  yet  I  found  it  sweet  and  fair. 

Thence  to  a  richer  growth  I  came, 
Where,  nursed  in  mellow  intercourse, 
The  honeysuckles  sprang  by  scores, 

Not  harried  like  my  single  stem, 
All  virgin  lamps  of  scent  and  dew. 
So  from  my  hand  that  first  I  threw, 

Yet  plucked  not  any  more  of  them. 


[239] 


DANTIS  TENEBR^E.1 

(In  Memory  of  my  Father.) 

AND  didst  thou  know  indeed,  when  at  the  font 
Together  with  thy  name  thou  gav'st  me  his, 
That  also  on  thy  son  must  Beatrice 

Decline  her  eyes  according  to  her  wont, 

Accepting  me  to  be  of  those  that  haunt 
The  vale  of  magical  dark  mysteries 
Where  to  the  hills  her  poet's  foot-track  lies 

And  wisdom's  living  fountain  to  his  chaunt 

Trembles  in  music  ?    This  is  that  steep  land 
Where  he  that  holds  his  journey  stands  at  gaze 
Tow'rd  sunset,  when  the  clouds  like  a  new  height 

Seem  piled  to  climb.     These  things  I  understand : 

For  here,  where  day  still  soothes  my  lifted  face, 

On  thy  bowed  head,  my  father,  fell  the  night. 


[240] 


DANTIS  TENEBR^E.1 

fin  Memory  of  my  Father.) 

AND  didst  thou  know  indeed,  when  at  the  font 
Together  with  thy  name  thou  gav'st  me  his, 
That  also  on  thy  son  must  Beatrice 

Decline  her  eyes  according  to  her  wont. 

^eV&qftmibbfQjbrieh  -Rossttti,  1848. 

The  vale  of  da»k  rnvsterses 

Where  to  the  hills  her  poet's  foot-track  lies 
And  v  mntain  to  his  chaunt 

Trembles  in  music  ?    This  is  that  steep  land 

Where  he  that  holds  his  journey  stands  at  gaze 

Tow'rd  sunset,  when  the  clouds  hke  a  new  height 
Seem  piled  to  climb.     These  things  I  understand : 

For  here,  where  day  still  soothes  rny  lifted  face, 
On  thy  bowed  head,  my  father,  fell  the  night. 


[240] 


WORDS  ON  THE  WINDOW-PANE.1 

DID  she  in  summer  write  it,  or  in  spring, 
Or  with  this  wail  of  autumn  at  her  ears, 
Or  in  some  winter  left  among  old  years 

Scratched  it  through  lettered  cark  ?    A  certain  thing 

That  round  her  heart  the  frost  was  hardening, 
Not  to  be  thawed  of  tears,  which  on  this  pane 
Channelled  the  rime,  perchance,  in  fevered  rain, 

For  false  man's  sake  and  love's  most  bitter  sting. 

Howbeit,  between  this  last  word  and  the  next 
Unwritten,  subtly  seasoned  was  the  smart, 

And  here  at  least  the  grace  to  weep:  if  she, 
Rather,  midway  in  her  disconsolate  text, 
Rebelled  not,  loathing  from  the  trodden  heart 
That  thing  which  she  had  found  man's  love  to  be. 


VOL.  i.— 16.  [24 1] 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  BOWER. 

SAY,  is  it  day,  is  it  dusk  in  thy  bower, 

Thou  whom  I  long  for,  who  longest  for  me  ? 
Oh !  be  it  light,  be  it  night,  't  is  Love's  hour, 

Love's  that  is  fettered  as  Love's  that  is  free. 
Free  Love  has  leaped  to  that  innermost  chamber, 

Oh!  the  last  time,  and  the  hundred  before: 
Fettered  Love,  motionless,  can  but  remember, 

Yet  something  that  sighs  from  him  passes  the  door. 

Nay,  but  my  heart  when  it  flies  to  thy  bower, 

What  does  it  find  there  that  knows  it  again  ? 
There  it  must  droop  like  a  shower-beaten  flower, 

Red  at  the  rent  core  and  dark  with  the  rain. 
Ah!  yet  what  shelter  is  still  shed  above  it,  — 

What  waters  still  image  its  leaves  torn  apart  ? 
Thy  soul  is  the  shade  that  clings  round  it  to  love  it, 

And  tears  are  its  mirror  deep  down  in  thy  heart. 

What  were  my  prize,  could  I  enter  thy  bower, 

This  day,  to-morrow,  at  eve  or  at  morn  ? 
Large  lovely  arms  and  a  neck  like  a  tower, 

Bosom  then  heaving  that  now  lies  forlorn. 
Kindled  with  love-breath,  (the  sun's  kiss  is  colder!) 

Thy  sweetness  all  near  me,  so  distant  to-day; 
My  hand  round  thy  neck  and  thy  hand  on  my  shoulder 

My  mouth  to  thy  mouth  as  the  world  melts  away. 

What  is  it  keeps  me  afar  from  thy  bower, — 
My  spirit,  my  body,  so  fain  to  be  there  ? 
[242] 


Song  of  tbe  Bower. 

Waters  engulfing  or  fires  that  devour?  — 
Earth  heaped  against  me  or  death  in  the  air  ? 

Nay,  but  in  day-dreams,  for  terror,  for  pity, 

The  trees  wave  their  heads  with  an  omen  to  tell; 

Nay,  but  in  night-dreams,  throughout  the  dark  city, 
The  hours,  clashed  together,  lose  count  in  the  bell. 

Shall  1  not  one  day  remember  thy  bower, 

One  day  when  all  days  are  one  day  to  me  ? — 
Thinking,  "  I  stirred  not,  and  yet  had  the  power!  " — 

Yearning,  "Ah  God,  if  again  it  might  be!  " 
Peace,  peace!  such  a  small  lamp  illumes,  on  this  high- 
way, 

So  dimly  so  few  steps  in  front  of  my  feet, — 
Yet  shows  me  that  her  way  is  parted  from  my  way.    .    .    . 

Out  of  sight,   beyond   light,   at  what  goal   may  we 
meet? 


[243] 


DAWN  ON  THE  NIGHT-JOURNEY. 

TILL  dawn  the  wind  drove  round  me.     It  is  past 
And  still,  and  leaves  the  air  to  lisp  of  bird, 
And  to  the  quiet  that  is  almost  heard 

Of  the  new-risen  day,  as  yet  bound  fast 

In  the  first  warmth  of  sunrise.     When  the  last 
Of  the  sun's  hours  to-day  shall  be  fulfilled, 
There  shall  another  breath  of  time  be  stilled 

For  me,  which  now  is  to  my  senses  cast 

As  much  beyond  me  as  eternity, 

Unknown,  kept  secret.     On  the  newborn  air 

The  moth  quivers  in  silence.     It  is  vast, 

Yea,  even  beyond  the  hills  upon  the  sea, 
The  day  whose  end  shall  give  this  hour  as  sheer 

As  chaos  to  the  irrevocable  Past. 


[244] 


A  LITTLE  WHILE. 

(•859.) 

A  LITTLE  while  a  Tittle  love 
The  hour  yet  bears  for  thee  and  me 
Who  have  not  drawn  the  veil  to  see 

If  still  our  heaven  be  lit  above. 

Thou  merely,  at  the  day's  last  sigh, 
Hast  felt  thy  soul  prolong  the  tone; 

And  I  have  heard  the  night-wind  cry 
And  deemed  its  speech  mine  own. 

A  little  while  a  little  love 

The  scattering  autumn  hoards  for  us 
Whose  bower  is  not  yet  ruinous 

Nor  quite  unleaved  our  songless  grove. 

Only  across  the  shaken  boughs 
We  hear  the  flood-tides  seek  the  sea, 

And  deep  in  both  our  hearts  they  rouse 
One  wail  for  thee  and  me. 

A  little  while  a  little  love 
May  yet  be  ours  who  have  not  said 
The  word  it  makes  our  eyes  afraid 

To  know  that  each  is  thinking  of. 

Not  yet  the  end:  be  our  lips  dumb 
In  smiles  a  little  season  yet: 

I  '11  tell  thee,  when  the  end  is  come, 
How  we  may  best  forget. 


[245] 


AN  OLD  SONG  ENDED. 

"  How  should  I  your  true  love  know 

From  another  one  ?  " 
"  By  his  cockle-hat  and  staff 

And  his  sandal-shoon." 

"  And  what  signs  have  told  you  now 

That  he  hastens  home  ?" 
"Lo!  the  spring  is  nearly  gone, 

He  is  nearly  come." 

"  For  a  token  is  there  nought, 
Say,  that  he  should  bring  ?  " 

"  He  will  bear  a  ring  I  gave 
And  another  ring." 

"How  may  I,  when  he  shall  ask, 
Tell  him  who  lies  there  ?  " 

"Nay,  but  leave  my  face  unveiled 
And  unbound  my  hair." 

"Can  you  say  to  me  some  word 

I  shall  say  to  him  ?  " 
"  Say  1  'm  looking  in  his  eyes 

Though  my  eyes  are  dim." 


[246] 


M 


INTRODUCTION  TO  "  ASPECTA 
MEDUSA." 

R.  WILLIAM  ROSSETTI  traces  these  verses  to  the 
year  1865.  They  were  written  for  a  design  in 
pen  and  ink,  from  which  Rossetti  intended  to  paint  a 
picture  of  Perseus  allowing  Andromeda  to  contemplate 
the  severed  head  of  Medusa  as  it  was  reflected  from 
a  tank  of  water.  Rossetti's  patrons  could  not,  however, 
bring  their  minds  to  purchase  so  "horrid"  a  picture, 
and  he  left  the  subject  unpainted. 

The  word  "hankered  "  in  the  second  line  of  the  poem 
is  certainly  not  a  common  one  in  poetry,  but  the  Ros- 
settis  seem  to  have  fancied  it,  as  Christina  also  uses  it  in 
one  of  her  loveliest  poems,  speaking  of 

The  foolishest  fond  folly  of  a  heart 
That  hankers  after  Heaven  but  clings  to  earth. 


[2471 


ASPECTA  MEDUSA. 

(For  a  Dr  awing.  J 
(1865.) 

ANDROMEDA,  by  Perseus  saved  and  wed, 
Hankered  each  day  to  see  the  Gorgon's  head: 
Till  o'er  a  fount  he  held  it,  bade  her  lean, 
And  mirrored  in  the  wave  was  safely  seen 
That  death  she  lived  by. 

Let  not  thine  eyes  know 
Any  forbidden  thing  itself,  although 
It  once  should  save  as  well  as  kill:  but  be 
Its  shadow  upon  life  enough  for  thee. 


[248] 


MICHAEL  SCOTT'S  WOOING.1 

(For  a  Drawing.) 

ROSE-SIIEATHED  beside  the  rosebud  tongue 
Lurks  the  young  adder's-tooth ; 
Milk-mild  from  new-born  hemlock-bluth 

The  earliest  drops  are  wrung : 

And  sweet  the  flower  of  his  first  youth 

When  Michael  Scott  was  young. 


[249] 


INTRODUCTION  TO    'VENUS  VERTI- 
CORDIA." 

THE  picture  inspiring  these  verses  stands  quite  by 
itself  among  Rossetti's  paintings.  For  one  thing, 
it  is  a  departure  from  his  usual  habit  of  painting  only 
draped  figures.  He  painted  two  pictures  of  the  subject, 
one  a  water-colour,  one  an  oil,  and  writes  thus  concern- 
ing them:  "I  really  do  not  think  the  large  picture 
chargeable  with  anything  like  Ettyism,  which  I  detest; 
but  I  am  sure  the  little  one  has  not  a  shadow  of  it. 
Drapery  of  any  kind  I  could  not  introduce  without  quite 
killing  my  own  idea."  Over  the  flowers  in  the  picture 
he  worked  with  true  pre-Raphaelite  patience.  He  writes 
to  his  mother: 

"  I  am  tied  down  to  my  canvas  till  all  the  flower  part 
of  it  is  finished.  I  have  done  many  more  roses,  and 
have  established  an  arrangement  with  a  nursery-gardener 
at  Cheshunt  whereby  they  reach  me  every  two  days  at 
2s.  6d.  for  a  couple  of  dozen  each  time,  which  is  better 
than  paying  a  shilling  apiece  at  Covent  Garden.  Also 
honeysuckles  I  have  succeeded  in  getting  at  the  Crystal 
Palace,  and  have  painted  a  lot  already  in  my  foreground, 
and  hope  for  more."  All  this  took  a  week  of  searching; 
Rossetti  can  hardly  have  been  cheered  by  Ruskin's  com- 
ment on  the  result.  The  flowers  he  deemed  "  wonder- 
ful" in  their  realism,  and  "awful"  in  their  "coarseness." 


[250] 


VENUS  VERTICORDIA. 

(For  a  Picture.} 

SHE  hath  the  apple  in  her  hand  for  thee, 
Yet  almost  in  her  heart  would  hold  it  back; 
She  muses,  with  her  eyes  upon  the  track 

Of  that  which  in  thy  spirit  they  can  see. 

Haply,  "Behold,  he  is  at  peace,"  saith  she; 
"  Alas!  the  apple  for  his  lips, — the  dart 
That  follows  its  brief  sweetness  to  his  heart, — 

The  wandering  of  his  feet  perpetually!  " 

A  little  space  her  glance  is  still  and  coy; 

But  if  she  give  the  fruit  that  works  her  spell, 

Those  eyes  shall  flame  as  for  her  Phrygian  boy. 
Then  shall  her  bird's  strained  throat  the  woe  foretell, 
And  her  far  seas  moan  as  a  single  shell, 

And  through  her  dark  grove  strike  the  light  of  Troy.1 


[251] 


EDEN  BOWER.1 

IT  was  Lilith  the  wife  of  Adam : 

(Sing  Eden  Bower!) 2 
Not  a  drop  of  her  blood  was  human, 
But  she  was  made  like  a  soft  sweet  woman. 

Lilith  stood  on  the  skirts  of  Eden ; 

(Alas  the  hour!) 

She  was  the  first  that  thence  was  driven ; 
With  her  was  hell  and  with  Eve  was  heaven. 

In  the  ear  of  the  Snake  said  Lilith:  — 

(Sing  Eden  Bower!) 

"To  thee  I  come  when  the  rest  is  over; 
A  snake  was  I  when  thou  wast  my  lover. 

"I  was  the  fairest  snake  in  Eden; 

(Alas  the  hour!) 

By  the  earth's  will,  new  form  and  feature 
Made  me  a  wife  for  the  earth's  new  creature. 

"Take  me  thou  as  I  come  from  Adam: 
(Sing  Eden  Bower!) 

Once  again  shall  my  love  subdue  thee; 
The  past  is  past  and  I  am  come  to  thee. 

"O  but  Adam  was  thrall  to  Lilith! 

(Alas  the  hour!) 

All  the  threads  of  my  hair  are  golden, 
And  there  in  a  net  his  heart  was  holden. 
[252] 


j£t>en  Bower, 

"  O  and  Lilith  was  queen  of  Adam! 

(Sing  Eden  Bower!) 
All  the  day  and  night  together 
My  breath  could  shake  his  soul  like  a  feather. 

"What  great  joys  had  Adam  and  Lilith!  — 

(Alas  the  hour!) 

Sweet  close  rings  of  the  serpent's  twining, 
As  heart  in  heart  lay  sighing  and  pining. 

"What  bright  babes  had  Lilith  and  Adam! — 

(Sing  Eden  Bower!) 

Shapes  that  coiled  in  the  woods  and  waters, 
Glittering  sons  and  radiant  daughters. 

"O  thou  God,  the  Lord  God  of  Eden! 

(Alas  the  hour!) 

Say,  was  this  fair  body  for  no  man, 
That  of  Adam's  flesh  thou  mak'st  him  a  woman  ? 

"O  thou  Snake,  the  King-snake  of  Eden! 

(Sing  Eden  Bower!) 

God's  strong  will  our  necks  are  under, 
But  thou  and  I  may  cleave  it  in  sunder. 

"Help,  sweet  Snake,  sweet  lover  of  Lilith! 

(Alas  the  hour!) 

And  let  God  learn  how  I  loved  and  hated 
Man  in  the  image  of  God  created. 

"  Help  me  once  against  Eve  and  Adam! 
(Sing  Eden  Bower!) 
Help  me  once  for  this  one  endeavour, 
And  then  my  love  shall  be  thine  for  ever! 
[253] 


Efcen  Bower, 

"  Strong  is  God,  the  fell  foe  of  Lilith: 
(Alas  the  hour!) 

Nought  in  heaven  or  earth  may  affright  Him; 
But  join  thou  with  me  and  we  will  smite  Him. 

"Strong  is  God,  the  great  God  of  Eden: 
(Sing  Eden  Bower!) 
Over  all  He  made  He  hath  power; 
But  lend  me  thou  thy  shape  for  an  hour! 

"  Lend  thy  shape  for  the  love  of  Lilith! 

(Alas  the  hour!) 

Look,  my  mouth  and  my  cheek  are  ruddy, 
And  thou  art  cold,  and  fire  is  my  body. 

"  Lend  thy  shape  for  the  hate  of  Adam! 
(Sing  Eden  Bower!) 

That  he  may  wail  my  joy  that  forsook  him, 
And  curse  the  day  when  the  bride-sleep  took  him. 

"Lend  thy  shape  for  the  shame  of  Eden! 

(Alas  the  hour!) 

Is  not  the  foe-God  weak  as  the  foeman 
When  love  grows  hate  in  the  heart  of  a  woman  ? 

"  Wouldst  thou  know  the  heart's  hope  of  Lilith  ? 

(Sing  Eden  Bower!) 

Then  bring  thou  close  thine  head  till  it  glisten 
Along  my  breast,  and  lip  me  and  listen. 

"  Am  I  sweet,  O  sweet  Snake  of  Eden  ? 

(Alas  the  hour!) 

Then  ope  thine  ear  to  my  warm  mouth's  cooing 
And  learn  what  deed  remains  for  our  doing. 
[254] 


i£ben  Bower. 

"Thou  didst  hear  when  God  said  to  Adam:  — 

(Sing  Eden  Bower!) 

'Of  all  this  wealth  I  have  made  thee  warden; 
Thou  'rt  free  to  eat  of  the  trees  of  the  garden: 

"  'Only  of  one  tree  eat  not  in  Eden; 
(Alas  the  hour!) 

All  save  one  I  give  to  thy  freewill,— 
The  Tree  of  the  Knowledge  of  Good  and  Evil.' 

"  O  my  love,  come  nearer  to  Lilith ! 

(Sing  Eden  Bower!) 

In  thy  sweet  folds  bind  me  and  bend  me, 
And  let  me  feel  the  shape  thou  shalt  lend  me. 

"  In  thy  shape  I  '11  go  back  to  Eden; 
(Alas  the  hour!) 

In  these  coils  that  Tree  will  I  grapple, 
And  stretch  this  crowned  head  forth  by  the  apple. 

"  Lo,  Eve  bends  to  the  breath  of  Lilith ! 
(Sing  Eden  Bower!) 
O  how  then  shall  my  heart  desire 
All  her  blood  as  food  to  its  fire! 

"  Lo,  Eve  bends  to  the  words  of  Lilith !  — 

(Alas  the  hour!) 

'Nay,  this  Tree's  fruit, — why  should  ye  hate  it, 
Or  Death  be  born  the  day  that  ye  ate  it  ? 

"  'Nay,  but  on  that  great  day  in  Eden, 
(Sing  Eden  Bower!) 
By  the  help  that  in  this  wise  Tree  is, 
God  knows  well  ye  shall  be  as  He  is.' 
[255] 


Bower. 


"  Then  Eve  shall  eat  and  give  unto  Adam; 

(Alas  the  hour!) 

And  then  they  both  shall  know  they  are  naked, 
And  their  hearts  ache  as  my  heart  hath  ached. 

"  Ay,  let  them  hide  'mid  the  trees  of  Eden, 

(Sing  Eden  Bower!) 

As  in  the  cool  of  the  day  in  the  garden 
God  shall  walk  without  pity  or  pardon. 

"  Hear,  thou  Eve,  the  man's  heart  in  Adam! 

(Alas  the  hour!) 

Of  his  brave  words  hark  to  the  bravest:  — 
'This  the  woman  gave  that  thou  gavest.' 

"  Hear  Eve  speak,  yea  list  to  her,  Lilith! 
(Sing  Eden  Bower!) 

Feast  thine  heart  with  words  that  shall  sate  it  — 
'This  the  serpent  gave  and  I  ate  it.' 

"O  proud  Eve,  cling  close  to  thine  Adam, 

(Alas  the  hour!) 

Driven  forth  as  the  beasts  of  his  naming 
By  the  sword  that  for  ever  is  flaming. 

"Know,  thy  path  is  known  unto  Lilith! 
(Sing  Eden  Bower!) 

While  the  blithe  birds  sang  at  thy  wedding, 
There  her  tears  grew  thorns  for  thy  treading. 

"O  my  love,  thou  Love-snake  of  Eden! 

(Alas  the  hour!) 

O  to-day  and  the  day  to  come  after! 
Loose  me,  love,  —  give  breath  to  my  laughter. 
[256] 


Bower, 


"O  bright  Snake,  the  Death-worm  of  Adam! 

(Sing  Eden  Bower!) 

Wreathe  thy  neck  with  my  hair's  bright  tether, 
And  wear  my  gold  and  thy  gold  together! 

"  On  that  day  on  the  skirts  of  Eden, 
(Alas  the  hour!) 

In  thy  shape  shall  I  glide  back  to  thee, 
And  in  my  shape  for  an  instant  view  thee. 

"But  when  thou  'rt  thou  and  Lilith  is  Lilith, 

(Sing  Eden  Bower!) 
In  what  bliss  past  hearing  or  seeing 
Shall  each  one  drink  of  the  other's  being! 

'  '  With  cries  of  '  Eve  !  '  and  '  Eden  !  '  and  '  Adam  !  ' 

(Alas  the  hour!) 

How  shall  we  mingle  our  love's  caresses, 
I  in  thy  coils,  and  thou  in  my  tresses! 

"With  those  names,  ye  echoes  of  Eden, 
(Sing  Eden  Bower!) 

Fire  shall  cry  from  my  heart  that  burneth,  — 
'  Dust  he  is  and  to  dust  returneth!  ' 

"Yet  to-day,  thou  master  of  Lilith,  — 
(Alas  the  hour!) 

Wrap  me  round  in  the  form  I  '11  borrow 
And  let  me  tell  thee  of  sweet  to-morrow. 

"In  the  planted  garden  eastward  in  Eden, 

(Sing  Eden  Bower!) 

Where  the  river  goes  forth  to  water  the  garden, 
The  springs  shall  dry  and  the  soil  shall  harden. 

VOL.  I.—  17. 

[257] 


J6ben  Bower. 

"  Yea,  where  the  bride-sleep  fell  upon  Adam, 

(Alas  the  hour!) 

None  shall  hear  when  the  storm-wind  whistles 
Through  roses  choked  among  thorns  and  thistles. 

"  Yea,  beside  the  east-gate  of  Eden, 

(Sing  Eden  Bower!) 

Where  God  joined  them  and  none  might  sever, 
The  sword  turns  this  way  and  that  for  ever. 

"  What  of  Adam  cast  out  of  Eden  ? 

(Alas  the  hour!) 

Lo!  with  care  like  a  shadow  shaken, 
He  tills  the  hard  earth  whence  he  was  taken. 

"  What  of  Eve  too,  cast  out  of  Eden  ? 

(Sing  Eden  Bower!) 

Nay,  but  she,  the  bride  of  God's  giving, 
Must  yet  be  mother  of  all  men  living. 

"Lo,  God's  grace,  by  the  grace  of  Lilith! 

(Alas  the  hour!) 

To  Eve's  womb,  from  our  sweet  to-morrow, 
God  shall  greatly  multiply  sorrow. 

"  Fold  me  fast,  O  God-snake  of  Eden! 
(Sing  Eden  Bower!) 

What  more  prize  than  love  to  impel  thee  ? 
Grip  and  lip  my  limbs  as  I  tell  thee! 

"  Lo!  two  babes  for  Eve  and  for  Adam! 

(Alas  the  hour!) 

Lo!  sweet  Snake,  the  travail  and  treasure, — 
Two  men-children  born  for  their  pleasure! 
[258] 


Bower. 


"  The  first  is  Cain  and  the  second  Abel: 
(Sing  Eden  Bower!) 

The  soul  of  one  shall  be  made  thy  brother, 
And  thy  tongue  shall  lap  the  blood  of  the  other. 
(Alas  the  hour!) 


[259] 


INTRODUCTION  TO  "MARY  MAGDA- 
LENE AT  THE  DOOR  OF  SIMON 
THE  PHARISEE." 

'""pHESE  verses  are  ascribed  by  Mr.  William  Rossetti  to 
I  the  year  1859;  but  I  think  they  were  written  in 
1869,  judging  from  Rossetti's  references  to  them,  and 
with  very  imperfect  logic  I  have  decided  in  this  instance 
to  follow  my  own  impression  and  place  them  among  the 
writings  of  that  year,  although  in  other  similar  instances 
I  have  followed  the  order  prescribed  by  Mr.  William 
Rossetti's  list.  The  subject  was  in  Rossetti's  mind  as 
suitable  for  a  picture  as  early  as  1853,  and  he  made  many 
drawings  of  it.  The  following  is  his  description  in 
prose,  written  for  the  oil-painting  of  1865: 

"The  scene  represents  two  houses  opposite  each 
other,  one  of  which  is  that  of  Simon  the  Pharisee,  where 
Christ  and  Simon,  with  other  guests,  are  seated  at  table. 
In  the  opposite  house  a  great  banquet  is  held,  and  feast- 
ers  are  trooping  to  it  dressed  in  cloth  of  gold  and  crowned 
with  flowers.  The  musicians  play  at  the  door,  and  each 
couple  kiss  as  they  enter.  Mary  Magdalene  has  been  in 
this  procession,  but  has  suddenly  turned  aside  at  the 
sight  of  Christ,  and  is  pressing  forward  up  the  steps  of 
Simon's  house,  and  casting  the  roses  from  her  hair. 
Her  lover  and  a  woman  have  followed  her  out  of  the 
procession  and  are  laughingly  trying  to  turn  her  back. 
The  woman  bars  the  door  with  her  arm.  Those  nearest 
the  Magdalene  in  the  group  of  feasters  have  stopped 

[260] 


RODUCTION  TO  "MARY  MAGDA- 
SE  AT  THE  DOOR  OF  SIMON 
THE  PHARISEE." 

THESE  verses  are  ascribed  by  Mr.  William  Rossetti  to 
the  year  1859;  but  I  think  they  were  written  in 
i86g,  judging  from  Rossetti's  references  to  them,  and 
'->  very  imperfect  logic  I  have  decided  in  this  instance 
v  my  own  impression  and  place  them  among  the 

milar  instances 


Man-  Magdalen  at 

the.  Pharisee,  A  >^de  many 

on   in 
prose,  w  the  **i 

"The   scene    represents  two  house  ite   each 

other,  one  of  which  is  that  of  Simon  the  Pharisee,  where 
Christ  and  Simon,  with  other  guests,  are  seated  at  table. 
In  the  opposite  house  a  great  banquet  is  held,  and  feast- 
ers  are  trooping  to  it  dressed  in  cloth  of  gold  and  crowned 
with  flowers.  The  musicians  play  at  the  door,  and  each 
couple  kiss  as  they  enter.  Mary  Magdalene  has  been  in 
this  procession,  but  has  suddenly  turned  aside  at  the 
sight  of  Christ,  and  is  pressing  forward  up  the  steps  of 
Simon's  house,  and  casting  the  roses  from  her  hair. 
Her  lover  and  a  woman  have  followed  her  out  of  the 
procession  and  are  laughingly  trying  to  turn  her  back. 
The  woman  bars  the  door  with  her  arm.  Those  nearest 
the  Magdalene  in  the  group  of  feasters  have  stopped 

[260] 


short  in  wonder  and  are  looking  after  her,  while  a  beggar- 
girl  offers  them  flowers  from  her  basket.  A  girl  near  the 
front  of  the  procession  has  caught  sight  of  Mary  and 
waves  her  garland  to  turn  her  back.  Beyond  this,  the 
narrow  street  abuts  on  the  highroad  and  river.  The 
young  girl  seated  on  the  steps  is  a  little  beggar  who  has 
had  food  given  her  from  within  the  house,  and  is  won- 
dering to  see  Mary  go  in  there,  knowing  her  as  a  famous 
woman  in  the  city.  Simon  looks  disdainfully  at  her,  and 
the  servant  who  is  setting  a  dish  on  the  table  smiles, 
knowing  her  too.  Christ  looks  toward  her  from  within, 
waiting  till  she  shall  reach  him." 

The  head  of  Christ  was  drawn  from  Sir  Edward  Burne- 
Jones. 

In  1869  Rossetti  writes  to  his  brother  that  he  is  then 
sending  to  the  printer  seven  new  sonnets,  among  them 
"  one  for  Magdalene." 


[261] 


MARY  MAGDALENE.1 

AT  THE   DOOR    OF  SIMON  THE    PHARISEE. 
(For  a  Drawing.1) 

"  WHY  wilt  thou  cast  the  roses  from  thine  hair  ? 

Nay,  be  thou  all  a  rose, — wreath,  lips,  and  cheek. 

Nay,  not  this  house, — that  banquet-house  we  seek; 
See  how  they  kiss  and  enter;  come  thou  there. 
This  delicate  day  of  love  we  two  will  share 

Till  at  our  ear  love's  whispering  night  shall  speak. 

What,  sweet  one, — hold'st  thou  stiH  the  foolish  freak  ? 
Nay,  when  I  kiss  thy  feet  they  '11  leave  the  stair." 

"Oh  loose  me!     Seest  thou  not  my  Bridegroom's  face 
That  draws  me  to  Him  ?    For  His  feet  my  kiss, 

My  hair,  my  tears  He  craves  to-day: — and  oh! 
What  words  can  tell  what  other  day  and  place 
Sha41  see  me  clasp  those  blood-stained  feet  of  His  ? 
He  needs  me,  calls  me,  loves  me:  let  me  go!" 


[262] 


TROY  TOWN.1 

HEAVENBORN  HELEN,  Sparta's  queen, 

(O  Troy  Town!} 

Had  two  breasts  of  heavenly  sheen, 
The  sun  and  moon  of  the  heart's  desire: 
All  Love's  lordship  lay  between. 
(O  Troy  's  down, 
Tall  Troy  's  on  fire  /) 

Helen  knelt  at  Venus'  shrine, 
(O  Troy  Town!) 

Saying,  "A  little  gift  is  mine, 

A  little  gift  for  a  heart's  desire. 

Hear  me  speak  and  make  me  a  sign! 
(O  Troy  's  down, 
Tall  Troy  's  on  fire  !) 

"  Look,  I  bring  thee  a  carven  cup; 

(O  Troy  Town!) 
See  it  here  as  I  hold  it  up,— 
Shaped  it  is  to  the  heart's  desire, 
Fit  to  fill  when  the  gods  would  sup. 
(O  Troy  's  down, 
Tall  Troy  's  on  fire  !) 

"It  was  moulded  like  my  breast; 

(O  Troy  Town!) 
He  that  sees  it  may  not  rest, 
Rest  at  all  for  his  heart's  desire. 
[263] 


Gown. 


O  give  ear  to  my  heart's  behest! 
(O  Troy  's  down, 
Tall  Troy  's  on  fire  !) 

"See  my  breast,  how  like  it  is; 
(O  Troy  Town!} 

See  it  bare  for  the  air  to  kiss  ! 

Is  the  cup  to  thy  heart's  desire  ? 

O  for  the  breast,  O  make  it  his! 
(O  Troy  's  down, 
Tall  Troy  's  on  fire!) 

"Yea,  for  my  bosom  here  I  sue; 
(0  Troy  Town!) 

Thou  must  give  it  where  't  is  due, 

Give  it  there  to  the  heart's  desire. 

Whom  do  I  give  my  bosom  to  ? 
(O  Troy  's  down, 
Tall  Troy  's  on  fire!) 

"  Each  twin  breast  is  an  apple  sweet. 

(O  Troy  Town!) 
Once  an  apple  stirred  the  beat 
Of  thy  heart  with  the  heart's  desire:  — 
Say,  who  brought  it  then  to  thy  feet  ? 
(O  Troy  's  down, 
Tall  Troy  's  on  fire!) 

"  They  that  claimed  it  then  were  three: 
(O  Troy  Town!) 

For  thy  sake  two  hearts  did  he 

Make  forlorn  of  the  heart's  desire. 

Do  for  him  as  he  did  for  thee! 
(O  Troy  's  down, 
Tall  Troy  's  on  fire!) 
[264] 


Gown. 


"  Mine  are  apples  grown  to  the  south, 

(O  Troy  Town!) 

Grown  to  taste  in  the  days  of  drouth, 
Taste  and  waste  to  the  heart's  desire  : 
Mine  are  apples  meet  for  his  mouth." 
(O  Troy  's  down, 
Tall  Troy  's  on  fire!) 

Venus  looked  on  Helen's  gift, 
(O  Troy  Town!) 

Looked  and  smiled  with  subtle  drift, 
Saw  the  work  of  her  heart's  desire:  — 
"There  thou  kneel'st  for  Love  to  lift!  " 
(O  Troy  's  down, 
Tall  Troy  's  on  fire!) 

Venus  looked  in  Helen's  face, 
(O  Troy  Town!) 

Knew  far  off  an  hour  and  place, 

And  fire  lit  from  the  heart's  desire; 

Laughed  and  said,  "Thy  gift  hath  grace! 
(O  Troy  's  down, 
Tall  Troy  's  on  fire!) 

Cupid  looked  on  Helen's  breast, 

(O  Troy  Town!) 
Saw  the  heart  within  its  nest, 
Saw  the  flame  of  the  heart's  desire,  — 
Marked  his  arrow's  burning  crest. 
(O  Troy  's  down, 
Tall  Troy  Js  on  fire!) 

Cupid  took  another  dart, 

(O  Troy  Town!) 
Fledged  it  for  another  heart, 
[265] 


Gown. 


Winged  the  shaft  with  the  heart's  desire, 
Drew  the  string  and  said,  "  Depart!  " 
(O  Troy  's  down, 
Tall  Troy  's  on  fire!) 

Paris  turned  upon  his  bed, 

(O  Troy  Town!) 
Turned  upon  his  bed  and  said, 
Dead  at  heart  with  the  heart's  desire  — 
"Oh  to  clasp  her  golden  head  !  " 
(O  Troy  's  down, 
Tall  Troy  's  on  fire!) 


[266] 


NOTES. 


[267] 


NOTES. 

The  Blessed  Damo^el.     As  printed  in  The  Oxford  and 
Cambridge  Magazine,  1856.     (Page  41.) 

(1)  Her  eyes  knew  more  of  rest  and  shade 

Than  waters  still'd  at  even; 

(2)  And  her  hair  lying  down  her  back 

(3)  She  scarcely  heard  her  sweet  new  friends  : 

Playing  at  holy  games, 
Softly  they  spake  among  themselves 

Their  virginal  chaste  names; 
(In  the  1870  version  these  lines  are  as  follows: 
Heard  hardly,  some  of  her  new  friends 

Amid  their  loving  games 
Spake  evermore  among  themselves 

Their  virginal  chaste  names; ) 

(4)  And  still  she  bow'd  above  the  vast 

Waste  sea  of  worlds  that  swarm; 

(5)  Had  when  they  sung  together, 

(6)  In  the  later  versions  this  stanza  is  the  eleventh.      In  the   Oxford 
and  Cambridge  version  it  is  the  sixteenth. 

(7)  And  we  will  step  down  as  to  a  stream, 

(8)  This  stanza  is  omitted  in  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  version. 

(9)  The  unnumber'd  ransom'd  heads 

(10)  At  peace  —  only  to  be 

(i  i)  The  light  thrilled  past  her,  fill'd 

(12)  And  then  she  laid  her  arms  along 

In  the  1870  version  :    "  And  then  she  cast  her  arms  along." 

My  Sister's  Sleep.     (Page  50.) 

(i)  This  poem  is  remarkable  as  an  instance  of  sympathetic  imagination, 
no  death  having  occurred  in  Rossetti's  faitiily  when  it  was  written. 

Jenny.     (Page  59.) 

(1)  "Mirth  and  woe  "  in  the  1870  edition. 

(2)  "  With  RaffaePs  or  Da  Vinci's  hand  "  (1870). 

(3)  This  line  and  the  two  following  it  do  not  appear  in  the  1870 
volume. 

[269] 


At  the  Sunrise  in  1848.     (Page  74.) 

(i)  Referring  to  the  European  revolutions  of  this  year. 

Autumn  Song  (1848.)     (Page  75.) 

(i)  This  lyric  was  set  to  music  by  Mr.  Dannreuther  in  1877. 

A  Trip  to  Paris  and  Belgium.     (Page  89.) 

I.  London  to  Folkestone, 
(i)  The  last  lines  in  Rossetti's  first  draught  read: 
1  was  roused  altogether  and  looked  out 
To  where,  upon  the  desolate  verge  of  light, 
Yearned,  pale  and  vast,  the  iron-coloured  sea. 

For  a  Virgin  and  Child.     (Page  100.) 

(i)  In  The  Germ  version  this  line  reads: 

While  like  a  heavy  flood  the  darkness  ran. 

For  Ruggiero  and  Angelica.     (Page  108.) 

(i)  The  title  in  The  Germ  reads:  "  Angelica  Rescued  from  the  Sea- 
Monster,"  by  Ingres;  in  the  Luxembourg.  The  octave  is  not  separ- 
ated from  the  sestet. 

Aw.     (Page  113.) 

(1)  A  church  legend  of  the  Blessed  Virgin's  death. 
In  the  1870  edition  this  line  reads: 

That  day  when  death  was  sent  to  break. 

(2)  In  the  1870  edition: 

The  cherubim,  arrayed,  conjoint. 

Dante  at  Verona.     (Page  127.) 

(1)  Donne  che  a-oete  intelletto  d'amore: — the  first  canzone  of  the  Vita 
Nuova.     (Rossetti's  note.) 

(2)  Uguccione  della  Faggiuola,  Dante's  former  protector,  was  now  his 
fellow-guest  at  Verona.     (Rossetti's  note). 

(3)  "  Messere,  voi  non  vedreste  tant  'ossa  se  cane  io  fossi."     The 
point  of  the  reproach  is  difficult  to  render,  depending  as  it  does  on 
the  literal  meaning  of  the  name  Cane.     (Rossetti's  note.) 

(4)  Such  was  the  last  sentence  passed  by  Florence  against  Dante,  as  a 
recalcitrant  exile. 

(5)  E  quindi  uscimmo  a  riveder  le  stelle. —  INFERNO. 
Puro  e  disposto  a  salire  alle  stelle. —  PURGATORIO. 

L'amor  che  muove  il  sole  e  I'  altre  stelle. — PARADISO.     (Rossetti's  note). 

(6)  Quomodo  sedet  sola  cimtas!  —  The  words  quoted  by  Dante  in  the 
Vita  Nuova  when  he  speaks  of  the  death  of  Beatrice. 

[270] 


motes. 

A  Last  Confession.     (Page  147.) 

(1)  "  Were  red"  (1870  edition). 

(2)  In  the  1870  edition  these  lines  read: 

till  it  seemed 

Within  the  whirling  brain's  entanglement 
That  she  or  1  or  all  things  bled  to  death. 
And  then  I  found  her  lying  at  my  feet 
And  knew  that  I  had  stabbed  her,  and  saw  still 
The  look  she  gave  me  when  she  took  the  knife 
Deep  in  her  heart;  — 

(3)  "blade "(1870). 

The  Burden  of  Nineveh.     (Page  175.) 

(i)  During  the  excavations,  the  Tiyari  workmen  held  their  services  in 
the  shadow  of  the  great  bulls. —  (Layard's  Nineveh,  ch.  ix.) 

The  Church-Porch.     (Page  182.) 

(i)  A  second  sonnet  on  this  subject  was  written  by  Rossetti  but  never 
published  by  him.     It  appeared  in  the  Century  Magazine  in  1882. 

Wellington's  Funeral.     (Page  183.) 

(i)  Date  of  the  Coup  d'Etat,  2d  December,  1851. 

The  Staff  and  Scrip.     (Page  195.) 

(1)  In  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  version  the  following  quotation  is 
printed  under  the  title : 

"  How  should  I  your  true  love  know  from  another  one  ?  " 
"  By  his  cockle-hat  and  staff  and  his  sandal-shoon." 

(2)  "  owns"  replaces  "  rules"  in  Oxford  and  Cambridge  version. 

(3)  "  throughout  some  dream  "  (Oxford  and  Cambridge). 

(4)  "bow  "  (Oxford  and  Cambridge). 

(5)  "  To-night  thou  'It  bid  her  keep  "  (Oxford  and  Cambridge). 

(6)  In  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  version  this  stanza  reads: 

So  arming  through  his  soul  there  pass'd 

Thoughts  of  all  depth  and  height: 
But  more  than  other  things  at  last 

Seem'd  to  the  arm'd  knight 
The  joy  to  fight. 

(7)  The  skies  by  sunset  all  unseal'd 

Long  lands  he  never  knew  (Oxford  and  Cambridge). 

(8)  This  and  the  next  stanza  are  omitted  in  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge 
version. 

(9)  "  But  the  Queen  held  her  brows  — "  (Oxford  and  Cambridge). 

(10)  "  O  harder  heart  unstayed  "  (Oxford  and  Cambridge). 
(n)  "  Fair  flew  these  folds — "(Oxford  and  Cambridge). 

(12)  "  And  she  would  wake — "(Oxford  and  Cambridge). 

(13)  " and  find  "  (Oxford  and  Cambridge). 

[271] 


motes. 

(14)  "  Pink  shells,  a  torpid  balm  "  (Oxford  and  Cambridge). 

(15)  "  To  chaunts  in  chapel  dim  "  (Oxford  and  Cambridge). 

(16)  "  But  in  light  stalls  of  golden  peace  "  (Oxford  and  Cambridge). 

Sister  Helen.     (Page  205.) 

(1)  But  Keith  of  Ewern  's  sadder  still  (1870). 

(2)  He  sees  me  in  earth,  in  moon  and  sky  (1870). 

(3)  Earth,  moon  and  sky,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  (1870). 

(4)  Oh,  never  more,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  (1870). 

(5)  No  more  again,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!     (1870.) 

(6)  "  For  three  days  now"  etc. —  (1870). 

English  May.     (Page  216.) 

(i)  This  sonnet  was  probably  addressed  to  Elizabeth  Siddal,  to  whom 
Rossetti  was  engaged,  and  whose  health  was  a  constant  cause 
of  anxiety. 

The  Passover  in  the  Holy  Family.     (Page  218.) 

(1)  Mr.  William  Rossetti  attributes  this  sonnet  to  the  year  1855,  and 
his  chronological  order  is  followed  in  giving  it  the  place  it  has  in 
the  present  sequence  of  poems.     From  Rossetti's  correspondence  it 
would  appear,  however,  that  it  was  one  of  seven  sonnets  written 
in  1869. 

(2)  The  scene  is  in  the  house-porch,  where  Christ  holds  a  bowl  of 
blood  from  which  Zacharias  is  sprinkling  the  posts  and  lintel.     Jo- 
seph has  brought  the  lamb  and  Elizabeth  lights   the   pyre.     The 
shoes  which  John  fastens  and  the  bitter  herbs  which  Mary  is  gather- 
ing form  part  of  the  ritual. 

On  the  Site  of  a  Mulberry-Tree.     (Page  219.) 

(i)  The  last  line  of  this  sonnet  read  originally: 

Some  tailor's  ninth  allotment  of  a  ghost. 
This  Rossetti   considered  insulting  to  the  worshipful  body  of  tailors 

and  would  not  publish  the  sonnet  lest  it  offend  them.     Finally  in 

MS.  he  substituted  "  starveling's  "  for  "  tailor's." 

Love's  Nocturn.     (Page  226.) 

(1)  "  Smile  those  alien  words  between  "  (1870). 

(2)  In  the  1870  volume  the  word  "  sunken"  replaced  "  spell-bound." 

(3)  "  Dreamland  "  in  the  1870  volume. 

Sudden  Light.     (Page  235.) 

(i)  Then,  now, —  perchance  again  ! 

O  round  mine  eyes  your  tresses  shake! 
Shall  we  not  lie  as  we  have  lain 

Thus  for  Love's  sake, 
And  sleep,  and  wake,  yet  never  break  the  chain?    (1870.) 

[272] 


motes, 

The  Woodspurge.     (Page  238.) 

(i)  The  "nature  lore"  in  The  Woodspurge  is  somewhat  misleading. 
It  was  written  by  Rossetti  in  pursuance  of  a  self-imposed  stint,  he 
having  at  one  time  resolved  to  turn  out  a  poem  a  day.  Coming  in 
one  afternoon  in  a  mood  of  idleness  he  sat  racking  his  brain  for  an 
idea,  and  turning  over  the  leaves  of  a  book  on  plants.  A  drawing 
of  the  woodspurge  attracted  his  attention,  and  this  poem  was  the 
result. 

Dantis  Tenebrce.     (Page  240.) 

(i)  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  was  named  for  his  father  and  for  Dante 
Alighieri,  of  whose  works  Gabriele  Rossetti  was  a  passionate  student. 

Words  on  the  Window-Pane.     (Page  241.) 

(i)  For  a  woman's  fragmentary  inscription. 

Michael  Scott's  Wooing.     (Page  249.) 

(i)  The  subject  of  Michael  Scott's  Wooing  was  frequently  in  Rossetti's 
mind.  As  early  as  1848  he  made  a  pen-and-ink  design  for  it,  and 
one  in  crayon  —  a  different  composition  —  in  1 866.  A  number  of 
years  later  he  did  a  water-colour.  The  verse  was  probably  written 
for  the  crayon  drawing. 

Venus  Verticordia.     (Page  251.) 

(i)  In  the  1870  volume  this  last  line  reads: 

And  her  grove  glow  with  love-lit  fires  of  Troy. 

Eden  Bower.     (Page  252.) 

(1)  The  Rabbinical  legends  of  Lilith,  the  first  wife  of  Adam,  provided 
the  suggestion  for  this  thoroughly  disagreeable  poem.     Mr.  Knight 
comments  upon  it: 

"  The  period  during  which  a  subject  such  as  this  had  attraction  for 
Rossetti  was  not  long,  and  it  is  fortunate  for  his  fame  that  it  was 
not."  It  was  the  period  during  which  insomnia  began  to  rule  his 
nights,  and  the  breaking  down  of  his  health  came  well  in  view. 

(2)  In  the  1870  volume  the  refrain  ran  in  place  of  "Sing  Eden  Bower" 
"  Eden  bower  's  in  flower,"  and  in  place  of  "  Alas  the  hour!  "    "And 
O  the  bower  and  the  hour!  " 

Mary  Magdalene.     (Page  262.) 

(i)  In  the  drawing  Mary  has  left  a  procession  of  revellers,  and  is 
ascending  by  a  sudden  impulse  the  steps  of  the  house  where  she  sees 
Christ.  Her  lover  has  followed  her,  and  is  trying  to  turn  her  back. 

Troy  Town.     (Page  263.) 

(i)  The  subject  of  this  poem  is  Helen's  dedication  to  Aphrodite  of  the 
goblet  modelled  in  the  shape  of  her  breast.  The  legend  is  found 
in  Pliny. 

END  OF  VOL.  I. 
[273] 


By  ELISABETH  LUTHER  CARY 


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edition  de  luxe  that  every  admirer  of  Browning  should  possess,  being  worthy  in 
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Tennyson 


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